Rise to Excellence
by Something Less Than Epic
Summary: The rags to riches story of a particular Valuan official. Who? Read to find out.
1. Prologue

Introductory Notes: Greetings, y'all. In an effort to actually FINISH a story for once, I'm going to keep these chapters short but sweet, so as to establish a nice pattern for myself. One chapter a night should easily be manageable if I keep the segments to a maximum of a thousand words of so.

"All hail Princess Teodora!"

The cheer erupted amongst the people quite unanimously, with any dissenters nicely drowned out. Not that there were many opposing voices in the first place: everybody had been warned, quite vehemently, to show proper respect. Whether such respect involved a restrained clapping or, in this case, raucous outbursts, mattered little. So long as they were positive in nature, the officials of Valua were happy. Had the freshly presented Princess been greeted with violent boo's, the king would no doubt have had every last officer's head. As such, threats were handed out, and a few particularly volatile individuals were jailed.

Not that such things were necessary, in this case. The people of Lower City had no need to make their lot in life worse. Those few voices of opposition probably would have been quashed without military intervention had they been raised at any point during Teodora's flight over the slums. Quite naturally, the Princess had objected to allowing her greatness to be lifted over such squalor, but her father had insisted on following through with tradition. The heir to the throne had, at one point or another, to present themselves to the populace in its entirety.

"Well, if I'm to float over such rats, then I insist on making the class distinction known!" she'd exclaimed angrily, demanding that she be dressed in the finest and most fashionable clothing of the time. She also insisted that her barge remain at least a hundred meters above the crowds at all times, claiming that the stench might make her faint. Her imperious attitude delighted those close to her – particularly mother and father – who saw, by all accounts, that she was of noble blood through and through.

And now, here she was, barge speeding rapidly over the squalid chimneys and fuming factories of Lower Valua, barely even acknowledging those who had turned out to watch her pass. Such was her right: she owed nothing to the peasants and workers. They processed the nation's raw materials, and in return, were protected from the dangers of the outside world, not to mention given affordable amenities and housing. They had no recourse but to wave, and cheer, and hail the Princess, while she could decide whether or not she wished to look down on them. Choice was the ultimate gift of the aristocracy.

Her barge was nothing short of opulent. Constructed out of gold and decorated in all manner of jewels and finery, it befit a Princess of her stature. From each propeller streamed a long piece of silk, whirling lazily and to great effect. The engineers had somehow managed to make it work without getting the fabric tangled up. It boasted two tiers, one bearing a small piloting station, and the other the Princess and her honour guard. She sat upon a plush seat of golden and purple. Emblazoned upon the rear of it was the royal sigil in striking red.

Hundreds of thousands of people watched as she circled briefly overhead and veered off, their arms raised in celebration but holding no joy in their hearts. Indeed, few amongst them were even interested in the spectacle. They came and hurrahed only out of expectation, and as the Princess whirled out of sight to present herself to the nobles in Upper Valua, crowd after crowd quickly dispersed. They all had better things to do. Hundreds of soldiers, all of whom had been ready to bust a few skulls, felt vaguely disappointed that their billy clubs had not been brought into use, and slipped back to their respective barracks. It was business as usual again in Lower Valua.

Except, perhaps, in one mind. One small, beaming mind. Those eyes had watched the future Empress of Valua wheel about overhead with awe and reverence. Those eyes, those clear, inspired, genius eyes, coated though they were in grime and dust, desired to belong.

But that day of belonging was not today. The eyes slipped back from the place of far off dreams, disappeared under a beaten wool cap, and headed home, hidden beneath the brow of a boy not yet seven years of age.


	2. Chapter 1

"Fall in, you laggards! Hup-two-one-two!"

What had been meant as a boom came out as a growling squeak, and did nothing to replicate the soldierly tone its speaker had been aiming for. In authority, too, it lacked power, resulting not in rapid attention but bare acknowledgement.

"Oh, lay off, Squim. We ain't have to get ready for another twenty minutes." was the only response. Squim, an emaciated youth with mottled skin and sharp brown eyes, sneered at the comment, tossing off streams of high-pitched epithets against his denouncer. Nobody ever took him seriously.

The second party, a cool young girl by the name of Tricks, snorted and ignored him. Being a full two years older than any of the boys in their little clique, Tricks knew the best way through an argument was to act one's age. As such, ignore the antics of worms like Squim. He would, in time, calm down of his own accord. She instead spent her time digging small deposits of dirt out from under her fingernails. Even a thief must maintain her image.

Squim, after three odd minutes of cursing and taunting – the others suspected his mind had been warped a little by what ever disease had turned his skin into a patchwork of browns, greens and grays – finally settled down and mumbled incoherently to himself. He crouched, perched as he was upon a thick hunk of slag metal, and glared angrily down into the darkness of the tunnels.

Marlo wondered what he was looking at. It was often hard to tell with Squim. He was the oddball of the group. Marlo, in contrast, was the straight man: seldom heard, even less often seen. He, alongside the last member of the Sewer Rats, made up the primary Thievery Team: Tricks and Squim were generally given the job of raising a ruckus, thus directing a man's attention away from his wallet. Boasting dirty red hair and nondescript features, Marlo blended into the background with incredible ease.

The same could never be said of Squim. Indeed, it was hard to keep the quizzical youth quiet for any longer than a few moments. Leaping bodily off of his twisted throne, Squim began to rant loudly. "Where th'hell is he? Slow, slow!"

A nicely aimed can rebounded off of his head. "Shut it, freak! He'll come when he comes!" Tricks was the only one who knew how to calm Squim down, using her own unique brand of ruthlessness. It probably stemmed from the fact that she was, so far as they knew, his older sister. The tactic worked, at least temporarily: Squim stuck his tongue out at her in defiance and settled down into the refuse.

And there was a lot of it. The whole group was situated in a grimy, darkened tunnel, surrounded by trash of all shapes and kinds. The walls, poorly constructed as they had been in the first place, now shone faintly with accumulated algae and unidentifiable slime. They'd all made a point, long ago, not to lay so much as a hand on the sides of the sewers. It would probably prove fatal to their already poor health.

Silence reigned. Nobody knew what to say, so they said nothing. Squim sorted mindlessly through piles of garbage, searching in vain for something edible. He seemed more animal than human at times. Tricks, her nails now passingly clean, closed her eyes and napped. Marlo waited. He had little else to engage himself with aside from his own thoughts, which were few. He was not an imaginative child. That capacity lay in the final child.

They were not left waiting long. A resounding clang filled the air, followed by the slow drag of metal on metal. The sewer had a visitor. A pale streetlight flooded down into the darkness, dispelling it ever so slightly. The soft padding of shoes, descending down the rusted rungs of a ladder, echoed down the lengths of the sewer. Squim, unusually acrobatic, leapt to his feet within a second and snuffled the air cautiously. Within seconds he disappeared behind the metal slag that had once acted as his seat. Everybody remained deathly still, lest the invader prove hostile.

He was not. As the blackened figure descended, he called out a hushed 'ki la la la' – their own nonsensical password, not to mention occasional battle cry – and came to a rest silently. His face was shrouded by a battered cap, but they all knew who it was. The Sewer Rats were complete once again.

Squim peered out from behind his hiding spot. The only person he actually trusted was Tricks. The other two could, at any moment, stab him in the back; Squim was determined not to let this happen. Marlo emerged from his refuge and approached the other half of the Thievery Team. They exchanged quiet smiles.

Tricks was blunt. "So, we on? The hag over and over?"

The boy nodded. "Yep. Probably halfway to the Uppers by now."

"Great. Off we go, fellas; nice recon, Galley. We go now. C'mon, hup." Tricks was on her feet and treading down the tunnels within moments; Squim followed closely on her heels; Marlo took up the rear, pulling a tattered hood over his head; and Galley, the youth with shining eyes, walked calmly in the midst of them all. He was home, now, if only temporarily, amongst his friends, in the sewers.


	3. Chapter 2

"Here's the plan, twits. Mama gave me leave to say it," Tricks added, with a touch of majesty, "so I'm gonna. So listen up."

Squim belched loudly in response. Galley and Marlo remained silent, ears open. Galley tipped his cap up ever so slightly, as though it were an impediment to his hearing.

"We're headed to Uppers. You already knew that, right? Right. S'here we go. We're all gonna steal this time 'round. If me'n the worm here tried to get attention we'd prob'ly be shot or tortured or somethin'." She stopped briefly to cough and spit. "I don't feel like getting' tortured, no, so we're not doin' that." Squim nodded sagely, as if to punctuate her words, and added several obscenities to the mix.

"Shut it, worm! So we get up there, and we pinch 'em pockets. You got me? Don't get saw, or you're dead. They'll all be watchin' the hag, probably. Be fast, yeah. That's the plan. Any objects?" Tricks could never pronounce the word in its entirety, so she left it at that. Marlo shook his head; Galley tipped the brim of his cap in acquiescence to the plan. It was rather loose-ended, giving him any number of chances to ply his trade.

And he was good. Galley had the nimblest fingers out of any of them. Marlo, the second best of the group, was clumsy in comparison. Silent as the breeze, with the lightest of touches, Galley could snatch even the best guarded of purses. His most endearing trait, however, was that he did not look to be a thief: no, any person would judge him to be nothing more than a disadvantaged, yet clearly lovely little boy. Indeed, they would not have been far off, for he had the kindest demeanor amongst them all, and the most pliable mind. If any amongst the Sewer Rats had the capability to rise above the muck and mire of Lower Valua, it was he.

Marlo was probably the only one to realize this. As they trundled along, he gazed longingly at Galley's back. He envied Galley his intelligence, his resolve. More than that, though, Marlo desired to emulate Galley's sense of optimism: he still had daring, expansive dreams contained in his head. Marlo couldn't recall ever having any dreams past a nice bed and a warm meal. Such was the lot of an orphan in Valua, or any citizen, for that matter: their ideals were crushed by a thoroughly uncaring, autocratic regime that held all the power. Wishing for such simple pleasures as proper clothing and a full belly was common.

Not in Galley, though. He'd spoken before, to Marlo, of everything he'd dreamed of. One day, he'd be an admiral in the armada. Maybe even king. He'd get them all out of there – yes, even Squim – and make them all rich. They would change Valua. People wouldn't have to pick through the garbage for food ("I doubt there's any place like that," Marlo had thought to himself dubiously). Everybody would be equal. Yeah, that sounded nice, didn't it? Marlo had thought it a very far-fetched dream; but, watching Galley's eyes, he knew the young man would make good on many of those claims. He had the power to do so.

They traveled on. The tunnels twisted and twined unendingly, yet not a one of them lost a sense of their positioning. They'd all grown up in these tunnels, more or less, and knew every nook and cranny like the back of their hand. Darkness was no hindrance; new piles of garbage, simply a part of the ever-changing backdrop. The destination of each tunnel never changed. After an hour of silent traveling, they arrived, and not a one of them was in doubt of where they were.

There was the ladder, and above it, the so-called 'Uppers'. Just thinking about those snot-nosed brats and pampered dilettantes made Tricks spit and curse to herself. Yet, what lay within the folds of their clothes, that was delicious. It would equal food – maybe something better than sky sardis on a bun, for once – and, perhaps, some logs for the fire. Who knows? Perhaps Mama would be able to buy them a house if they did exceptionally well. And those elites, well, they'd get along just fine minus several thousand gold pieces.

Slipping up the ladder, Tricks pushed hard against the thick manhole cover. With a groaning lurch it slid open, ever so slowly, much to Squim's delight: he called out "Ki la la la!" rather raucously, dancing about, before finding Tricks dislodged shoe planted firmly in his face. She called out a quick, hushed threat to him, told him to keep quiet, ordered Marlo to grab her shoe and bring it up, and clambered out into the streets of Upper Valua. The rest of the Sewer Rats followed suit, Squim nursing an injured nose as he went.


	4. Chapter 3

Jack was a guard. Or, at least, that was the official name for his position: informally, and truthfully, he was more a sleeper. He'd learned long ago how to nap standing stock-straight, not losing an ounce of his authority. Even on a day like today, with the Princess circling lazily overhead – would she never give it a rest? – and everybody out to watch and cheer, his duty required only the slightest bit of concentration. Such was the luxury of being appointed to Upper Valua. The aristocrats were all arrogant as hell, and rather condescending, but that was about it. The majority just ignored the guards as nothing more than ornaments scattered about their shining city. Jack had been on the job for five years now, and had been approached only three times by a noble: once, to ask directions, and twice by drunks. They'd both ridiculed him with slurred speech and asinine claims. He'd just taken it all, and, upon their departure, gone back to sleep.

There were a lot of them out now. Scores of opulently dressed fat-cats, cheering and waving on their patios, some bowing, others ooh-ing and ahh-ing. The ladies were garbed in shimmering dresses, glinting magnificently in the streetlight; the men, smartly attired in trim, daring suits. They'd all been waving and cheering for over an hour now as the Princess wheeled about overhead, clearly enthusiastic about her position of power in the whole thing. The aristocrats, rather like the bums of Lower Valua, had no choice but to cheer her on. She would not, in fact, give up her display for another ten minutes yet.

Jack had given up watching her ages ago. Such was the advantage of owning a helmet – nobody could tell you were being blasphemous, so long as you tilted your head ever so slightly. Out of a miniscule sense of pride, he'd kept his eyes open all this time; but now, it was time to rest. Jack's eyelashes slowly began to descend. The throngs of gentiles turned into a colourful blur.

And then they opened again, a little puzzled. Something small and dark had woven between a pair of those fancily garbed elites and vanished. He'd just barely caught sight of it, whatever it was. An interloper? He wasn't sure. He'd never seen anything quite like it.

"Eh, probably just a trick of light," he murmured quietly to himself. His eyes made another attempted at closure and succeeded. His mind faded slowly into dream-time.

How unfortunate for him that he missed the next two shadows that followed the first. They might have aroused his suspicions. As it was, though, the aristocrats were easy pickings.

--

Squim was only quiet when he worked. Indeed, he became as silent as the grave as his fingers dipped into pockets and purses. He moved like a flash amongst the unsuspecting crowds, relieving all of their casual change. Those who felt his touch thought it to be nothing more than the breeze.

Marlo and Tricks were even subtler than that. Both were well versed in not only picking out the particularly unsuspecting – the naïve and insensitive seemed to carry a kind of alluring glow about them – but those who were subtly engaged in other pursuits at the moment. A quietly conversing couple, a man lost in thought, a woman somewhat hypnotised by the slow whirling of the sinewy fabric from the Princesses' barge, all were potential victims.

They all paled in comparison to Galley, however. He moved like a ghost. Nothing could elude his grasp. Pocket watches, diamond cufflinks, carefully concealed wallets, and even several military medals worked their way into the folds of his clothing. His speed was supernatural. He didn't even need to possess the kind of extra sight for susceptibility that Marlo and Tricks had. No, any target was fair game, so long as he was concerned, for he was a master of diversion. To steer a man's attention away from his pocket, Galley would deliberately elicit one noise or another off in the opposite direction; not enough to rouse too much suspicion, but enough to direct his prey's mind off-kilter for a few critical seconds. Six years of living from instinct had turned him into a pro. These posh aristocrats were like lambs to the slaughter.

Unfortunately, things were not to go smoothly, despite the expertise of the Sewer Rats. Such things never proceed completely according to plan. No, there was, much to their chagrin, one quick-eyed young man amongst the crowds – much better at keeping watch than Jack – who, out of pure skill, managed to notice the quickly flitting shadows of the thieves on several occasions. Burly yet smart, and possessing infinite patience, he allowed nothing to escape his notice. He patted his father's shoulder calmly, careful not to harm the nicely pressed fabric of his uniform, and leaned over to speak in his ear.

"Excuse me, father, but I think there might be something wrong."

His father, an unimpressive court official who looked twenty years older than he actually was, barely acknowledged his son at first. "Huh? Why say that?" His eyes continued to follow the barge whirling overhead.

"Well, I keep seeing these little figures running amongst the crowds. . . I wonder if they might not be thieves-"

His father exploded at that. "What?! Thieves, here? Preposterous! It couldn't happen! Nobody would have the gall!" Several aristocrats gazed over at the outburst, suddenly clutching at their valuables. Though all were prone to wasting ludicrous amounts of money on the paltriest of things, none wished to be robbed. The utter indignity of being compromised in such a fashion was unthinkable.

"Well, I can't say I'm sure, of course, but, if you'll just look-" the young man insisted, pointing out amongst the throngs in the streets.

His father tried. Honestly, he tried. But years of peering at tiny printing on poor parchment had dulled his eyesight considerably, and he would never have his son's eyes. "I don't see a thing. Honestly, the very idea is insane in the first place, Gregorio. Use that juicy brain of yours, my boy, and recognise the validity of my words!"

"But, father-"

"No buts! All eyes should be on the future of Valua, son!" He resumed his careful consideration of Princess Teodora, who was just coming by for another pass over the crowd, waving her ornate sceptre wildly.

But Gregorio would have none of it. He knew what he'd seen. Without another word, he stalked away from his father and waded out into the sea of clueless aristocrats, a predator in search of predators.


	5. Chapter 4

Mama's first rule of thievery: Keep on the move. Don't stop for even a second, or you'll be made.

The children did this with no problem. Several years of stealing had turned them into finely-tuned machines when it came to swiftness.

Mama's second rule of thievery: Don't let those fingers linger any longer than a few seconds. You'll be caught in no time flat.

Even Squim understood the importance of this precept. Even the dullest of aristocrats would notice a child's grubby paws rooting about in his pockets, given sufficient time to notice.

Mama's third rule of thievery: Keep away from people who have a hawk's eyes.

Galley recognised this all too well. So, too, did Marlo and Tricks. Squim, unfortunately, suffering from the delusion that he could never be caught, disregarded this rule. Most of the time, it didn't matter that he ignored it, for the youth was so nimble that few could catch him. Tonight, however, fortune did not smile in his favour.

He'd managed to edge up behind one particularly large patriarch, ready to snatch up a nice juicy wallet, when Gregorio came stalking into view. The man's eyes were scanning the crowd restlessly, wholly disregarding the scowls he earned for not attending to the Princess above. To Squim, the tougher a person looked, the better: he could prove his worth by stealing from a powerful target, and earn his sister's respect. And Gregorio, decked out in a smoothed sub-lieutenant's uniform, nicely fit the bill. Disregarding his former target, Squim instead mentally fixed a pair of crosshairs upon Gregorio and ducked underneath a nearby table. His tongue slithered out of his mouth salaciously, and he dreamed of the kind of riches that uniform must contain.

Marlo, too, took notice of Gregorio, but his reaction to the muscle-bound naval officer was to scurry out of his field of vision. Gregorio's eyes were just too hawkish. Slipping quickly over to Galley and subduing the boy beneath a concession's cart, he pointed Gregorio out and told Galley to pass on the message. Galley, nodding, rolled out from beneath the cart and began a stealthy search for Squim, while Marlo looked for Tricks.

Gregorio was now descending a set of stairs situated mere feet from Squim's hiding spot. He knew it was now or never. Little splatters of his drool rebounded off of the ground. His eyes bulged in anticipation. Gregorio was taking his last step. . . now sidling between a pair of nobles. . . now.

Galley saw it all happen. He was too far away to stop it. Squim, darting forward, slid in behind Gregorio and shoved an overly ambitious hand into the man's back pocket. Gregorio immediately took notice and spun reflexively, dragging the emaciated youth along with him. Squim squealed loudly, unable to remove his fingers – Gregorio's uniform afforded only small and tight rear pockets – and planted both feet against the leg of his surprised captor, attempting by violent force to extricate his digits. It worked, all too well, and Squim was sent rolling into the leg of a nearby woman, who screamed in shock and fainted (she believed that she was under attack), thus attracting more attention to it all. Soon, every elite in the area was taking a gander at this ugly little creature who had inexplicably appeared in their midst.

Gregorio wasted no time. He had been well trained in the navy. Diving forward, he locked a powerful hand around one of Squim's flailing legs. Squim began to squeal all the more loudly at this, wriggling vigorously in an attempt to escape. His foul mouth emptied endless strings of curses into the air, shocking everyone present.

"Aha, I've got you, thief!" was all that Gregorio managed to get out before a fierce creature appeared around his neck and began hammering violently away at his head. Tricks, having noted her brother's predicament, had flung herself from a nearby lamppost onto the big man. She sank her teeth into his left ear, a development that shocked Gregorio into releasing his grip temporarily. Squim instantly scuttled away, continuing to swear at his would-be captor – and, in his haste, dropping close to half of his night's earnings. Tricks soon joined him, small flecks of blood spotting her already grimy teeth.

Gregorio stumbled. He'd not expected this. Dimly, working through the pain in his ear, he heard the clarion call of the crowd to the guards: "Thieves! Thieves! Hang them all, by Valua!" A mass panic ensued, with nobles running in all directions in an effort to preserve their wealth. Gregorio's father did his best to join his wounded son, but was bodily swept away by the crowd.

Galley and Marlo, who had taken refuge under a tablecloth-laden table, peered out at the chaos in dismay. Squim had screwed up big time. Mama would be furious, no doubt. Gazing over at Marlo, Galley tucked his cap down and thumbed towards the alleyway that contained their one venue of escape. Marlo nodded. They both vanished into the crowd.

Gregorio, pushing aside a few hapless nobles, advanced on Tricks and Squim. They knew he would be able to outrun them. They were small, and good at many short spurts of energy; but Gregorio was huge and muscular, and could sprint long distances without being winded. Neither knew what to do.

"That. . . hurt, young lady," he stated matter-of-factly, brushing a thin bead of blood off of the side of his face.


	6. Chapter 5

"Eat me, Upper-Dupper! Yeeeeeeeee haw!" Squim cackled maniacally and rapped his knuckles on the ground. Tricks, for once, simply ignored him. The man before them was of much greater concern. What was she to do? They had to escape. She was so young, and beautiful; it would be a. . . hmm, wait, that might work. . .

Tricks rose from her cautious kneel and smiled at Gregorio, a poor attempt at flirtation. "Why, my sorry, big guy. I didn't mean nuthin'." She twisted one foot playfully and blew him a kiss. Gregorio visibly twitched at her advances.

"What the devil are you talking about? You'll have it for doing all this, you know. The guards are probably on their way now." Contrary to his belief, Jack, the only soldier present amidst the chaos, was still soundly asleep, his armoured back leaning stiffly against the wall of a cafe.

Tricks fluttered her eyes. "Aw, don't be like that. . . I c'n make it aaaaaall better. . ." She licked her lips and rubbed a hand up her thigh slyly. Gregorio instantly rebuffed her paedophilic invitations with a hasty "Now, look here, I have no time for this," and began to stalk forward again.

"Well, crap, eh? That was bust." Tricks instantly dropped the ruse and backed up a few steps. Her mind raced furiously for some kind of alternative, a way out. . . but there was nothing. The area was clear of obstacles or distractions to put to use. Gregorio would catch them if they ran. The jig was up.

And then, suddenly, Galley was amongst them, standing rigidly beside Squim. His oversized clothes and patched cap did nothing to reduce his stature: Tricks thought him to be years older than six and a half in that instant. He winked at her from beneath his cap and stared at Gregorio, daring the big man to continue forward. Gregorio, a little perplexed at this new arrival, slowed his pace. These kids were not to be underestimated, no matter how young they were.

"Stop there, Upper. Don't take another step or you'll be sorry!"

Gregorio blinked. "Say what? I think it is you, young man, who should stop." The words of caution sounded stupid as they left his mouth. For all his military know-how, Gregorio had no plan past 'grab the thieves and turn them in'. This dishevelled little boy, on the other hand, seemed in command of things. His shinning eyes said as much quite clearly.

Galley smirked. "Don't say I didn't warn ya, then. Marlo, now!"

It was then that Gregorio realised his mistake: he had strayed underneath one of several large, billowing umbrellas that decorated the area (the aristocrats demanded such an amenity for, though there was no visible sun, it could come out any day now, and they wished to be prepared). Marlo had scaled up to the interior of it and grabbed hold of a thick rope that could pull it closed with a moment's notice. He let go of the pole and plummeted towards the ground, clutching tightly to the rope and quickly pulling the umbrella shut as he descended. The opulently decorated folds of it pulled tightly inwards and encapsulated poor Gregorio, if only for a few moments. He rumbled in surprise and struggled against his multicoloured foe.

Galley laughed and motioned for Marlo to follow. Tricks and Squim were already running for the alleyway. Squim playfully leaped at several shocked aristocrats along the way, scaring one woman witless and a man into tripping over his coattails. Galley and Marlo ran, side by side, Galley still laughing playfully, while Marlo thought to himself: I'll follow him until the day I die.

Their timing was perfect. The guards were just then coming out in force. Jack, still snoozing, soon found himself beaned over the helmet by his captain's billy club, relieved of his post, and sent home without pay for the next month.

--

Teodora was utterly dismayed by the crowd's sudden dissipation. She made a mental note to complain loudly to her father upon returning home for the final part of the ceremony (for which she was already forty-five minutes late).

--

"Idiot! Worm! Lunkhead! Don't you listen to mama? Worm! Answer me, worm!" Tricks soundly drubbed Squim over the head with a stick she had found in the sewer. Squim retreated in pain and embarrassment, cursing everybody in sight and clutching protectively at his patchy skin. His flight took him behind a pile of rotting food, where he rested and watched his fellow Sewer Rats tentatively. Tricks, especially, caught his attention, for he had once again failed to impress his sister – worse, he'd made himself look stupid.

She scowled in his general direction and spat. "I got that guy's blood'n my teeth. Ew. Rest up, twits, then we head home to mama." With that, she promptly seated herself upon a crate and closed her eyes.

Galley and Marlo – never Marlo and Galley, for Marlo would perpetually be subordinated to his friend, and he didn't mind that one bit – settled themselves against a plank of mouldy wood. They'd already walked a long way after the escape, and both boys were beat. As such, they sat quietly, lost in thought.

Marlo would be the first to speak. He had to. Even for a quiet lad such as himself, the long interval of emptiness was too much to bear. "Hey Galley?"

"Yeah?"

"You're so smart. I never woulda thought up that brulla thing on my own."

"Brella. Umbrella."

"Oh, right."

"Thanks. It was a bit of genius, eh?"

"Yeah."

Silence reigned again. They sat, comforted by one another: Marlo nestled safely in the assurance that Galley could get him out of any jam, and Galley beaming with pride at himself and the compliment just paid to him. He had, for once, been in control of things, if only briefly – and he'd liked it.


	7. Chapter 6

"Cheers, my friends. It has been a glorious day."

The king lifted his glass – an exquisite piece of the finest crystal, and worth over ten thousand gold on its own – in celebration. His assembled court mimicked the action gaily. Everybody was in high spirits; the Princesses' ceremony had gone without a hitch, save a small riot amongst the aristocrats. The king didn't care about such details, personally: his soldiers were out searching for the perpetrators as they drank.

They were gathered at a truly mammoth table, circular in design and filling the palace's dining room. Its edges were gilded with ornate decorations, depicting the rule of the Valuan royal family for over three hundred years. A large segment of it yet remained blank, ready at any time to be added to – and the current king was all too prepared to contribute his own legacy to the display. These designs, however, were not in evidence this night: no, the table was instead covered in foods of all kinds, the finest delicacies from all corners of the known world. Servants circled the table constantly, attending to every demand for more wine or for food that was, currently, somewhere on the other side of the table. Fresh platters constantly replaced old and emptied ones. For being such refined creatures, the court was full of truly ravenous men and women.

The queen and the Princess had already departed for bed, leaving the king surrounded by none but his finest officers: the admirals. Four of the most powerful men in all of Valua. The king, himself, served as Lord Admiral, though he was toying with the notion of handing power over to one of his subordinates – Mendoza, perhaps. That, however, was not the point of this meeting. Another issue pressed on his mind tonight.

Admiral De Loco was grinning knowingly at the king. He was the only one amongst them privy to the knowledge the king was about to spring on them all: indeed, he had come up with the idea in the first place. The diminutive admiral stroked his curling, purple moustache and adjusted his monocle. Nobody could ever tell what the man was thinking, nor, in general, did they want to know: De Loco was infamous for his twisted views on life. In this case, however, the man had been rather astute in his suggestions.

The king set aside his drink and cleared his throat. "I would imagine that you are all wondering why I called you here today. After all, the Princesses' birthday is not for another three months. Oh, and please speak freely tonight, if you wish."

Most did not follow this sudden change in decorum. They knew better. His admirals, however, took advantage of his offer. Mendoza, ever outspoken, assumed centre-stage first. "Quite true, my liege: it was rather sudden, after all. Still beautifully executed, of course, but it left most of us wondering if, perhaps, you had some ulterior motive." He nodded graciously and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

The king smiled. "Yes, well, you would be correct. Though my announcement is in the planning stages at best, I thought it prudent that I get it out of the way. No doubt you have all been quite aware of the difficulties we have been enduring lately in regards to our 'front gate', so to speak."

They did. 'Front gate' referred to the Strait of Delium, the primary causeway into Valua. It had recently turned into a considerable security nuisance: pirates, both black and blue, had become increasingly daring in making forays into Valuan territory, using the Strait both as a means of accessing Valuan airspace and as an escape route. The Valuan navy, still in its fledgling years, was not capable of both patrolling their territory and guarding the Strait on a constant basis. Piracy rates had tripled in the last three years.

"We cannot suffer the loses incurred by undesirables entering our country on a whim any longer. We must stabilise Valua if it is, as we one day hope, to become a major player internationally. The Strait of Delium must be plugged up artificially." A cadre of 'here here!'s circled the table at this comment.

Admiral Corlus, a tall, ancient man with a penchant for keeping things 'by the book', raised one fuzzy eyebrow in consideration. "Artificially, my lord? With all due respect, that would require a barrier of incredible breadth and girth. Do we have the resources to accomplish such a feat?"

Before the king could reply, De Loco threw in his two cents. His voice was high and raspy. "Of course we can! I, personally, have calculated the sum total of our raw materials. Our fine nation is fully capable of erecting this barrier."

The king ignored De Loco's impudence. The man had proved his worth enough times that some amount of leeway was necessary. "Indeed. That is why we are here, my friends: both to celebrate my daughter's ascendancy, and to announce the creation of an impenetrable form of defence for Valua." He nodded at De Loco.

De Loco, his grin expanding with every second, snapped his fingers. At his beck and call, a servant duo, situated at both ends of a long, velvet curtain that adorned the wall – the nobles had assumed that it hid a fresh portrait of the young Princess – tugged upon a pair of long, twined ropes and brought the curtain sliding upwards. Beneath it was, instead, a gigantic painting of a deep emerald wall. It stretched across was appeared to be the entirety of the mouth of the Strait of Delium. A huge, embossed crest adorned the centre of it.

The court, needless to say, was awed. De Loco rubbed his hands together in glee.

The king coughed lightly and continued. "This is the Grand Fortress of Valua, as proposed by Admiral De Loco. It will render our nation virtually impregnable to attack, if all goes as planned. I have agreed to contribute the necessary materials to Admiral De Loco's project; he will manage its construction from start to finish."

His crowd was stunned speechless. Eve the admirals, save De Loco, could find no words to express themselves.

De Loco took it from there. "With this, we will rule the world. You understand? We will rule everything! Nobody will defy us ever again!"

Mendoza, predictably enough, was the first to find his words again. "H. . . how do you plan on building it, though? From whom will we draw our labour force? Without a sufficient base of support, it'll take decades to construct this!"

At these words, De Loco's smile grew insidious. His eyes narrowed. "Oh, you just leave that to me, Admiral. Just leave that to me."


	8. Chapter 7

The lair of the Sewer Rats was, well, a hole. There aren't many other ways of describing it: it had literally been carved out of the side of the sewer tunnels. A steady stream of murky, heavily polluted water flowed by it constantly. Tiny, deformed lizards and other unspeakable creatures prowled around it with impunity, often sneaking in to snatch up a few crumbs of food (not that the children left many: each amongst them knew the worth of nourishment to Lower Valuans, and hoarded every last particle of bread jealously). Each amongst the Sewer Rats had a theory about what had originally created their rather expansive cubby- hole of a home: Squim, personally, believed that a water dragon had dug into the wall, and made a nest out of its creation. Tricks considered it the work of a pair of lovers (deep down, she was quite the romantic) who had used it for many a midnight rendezvous (romantic in a crude sort of way, that is). Galley envisioned their home as the former hideout for a gang of thieves and brigands, the likes of which Valua would never see again (he was already well aware that the Sewer Rats were a temporary organisation, at best). Marlo, quite simply, considered it home. Where it came from didn't really matter, so long as it was there at the end of the day.

Mama, however, possessed the most accurate estimate of its origins. Upon first discovering the hollowed out rooms, she'd found a large number of human bones and scraps of mouldy clothing. She'd cleaned them all out, long ago, but never forgot about what she found: her theory was that some form of murder had taken up residence there, one strong enough to somehow pound living quarters out of the very rock. In actual fact, it had once been home to an infamous sociopath by the name of Tooth, who had captured people in the streets and dragged them down into the depths of the sewers. The things he'd done to each and every last one of them before ultimately sucking the marrow from their bones would make any person's blood curdle. Fortuitously for the Sewer Rats, however, he was one hundred and twenty-two years dead. His former den was now their cosy little home, one that they each loved in their own way.

It was this very home that they were now returning to, Tricks leading the band along as per usual. Squim aside, they each bore a considerable amount of valuables, scattered amongst the various folds and rips of their tattered clothing. Galley even had a golden pocket-watch perched upon his head, hidden by his cap. It was their policy to make sure that any empty space upon their personage be filled as quickly as possible.

Tricks halted a little short of the entrance, a gaping puncture in the wall of the sewer, and called out 'ki la la la' softly. It was returned in a singsong manner, by a voice far more gentle than Tricks could ever manage. Tricks grinned and sprinted into the hole, exclaiming wildly that they'd had the greatest success in working tonight. Squim leapt in after her, somewhat abashed that he had so little to contribute after losing much of his.

Before Galley could enter, however, Marlo laid a hand upon his shoulder. Galley tipped the rim of his cap up and gazed back at his friend inquisitively.

"You think mama'll be mad?"

Galley twisted his lips up, considering the question. "Hmmm. . . I dunno. You think?"

Marlo nodded mutely. Galley could only shrug at it. They clambered in.

Despite outside appearances – and the fact that it was, well, a spacious hole – the laid of the Sewer Rats was rather nicely adorned, if a bit eccentric. The cold floor had been abundantly carpeted with a wide range of battered rugs, most of which probably originated in Nasr. The walls were covered in knickknacks and pictures of all kinds, some culled from the garbage and others stolen. Several clocks hung from dull nails; only one worked. A great deal of beadwork spread across almost every vertical plane – Mama was a big fan of beads – and obscured many of the objects on the walls like a series of wooden webs. Upon the floor one could find toys, trinkets, pencils, quills, tools, fabric, clothing, blankets, utensils, parchment, maps, urns, pottery, and any number of other odds and ends. A few books even lay scattered around Mama's bed, though the children were forbidden to touch those. They were worth a lot. The children's bed, a large, bouncy cot that was surprisingly comfortable after years of wear and tear, rested in the corner of the hole.

In the midst of it all sat Mama, her legs folded delicately upon her bed (which was, admittedly, more of a thick bundle of blankets and towels than anything else – it served her needs, nevertheless). She was sewing.

To hear the name 'Mama', one invariably thinks of a decrepit old woman, rather like a spinster. This was not so. Though she never told her children as such, Mama was just barely out of her teenage years, at the ripe age of twenty. She was an eclectic figure: lithe and spry, with brunette hair worn in a ponytail, she wore a vast array of vibrant clothing that made her seem rather like a sideshow oddity. Her pants were long and baggy, and covered in a vast array of daggers (she specialised in throwing knives) held in place by dirty belts and worn straps of all kinds. She was garbed in a loose fitting tank top, over which she draped a quilt: it was, after all, cold in the sewers. Gaudy bracelets and beaded ringlets adorned her arms. She jingled wherever she went (unless engaged in thievery, in which case she removed her adornments). A plethora of cheap necklaces lay around her neck. Anyone who saw her thought her some kind of Gypsy.

She gazed up to look at her children, one sewing needle clutched firmly in her teeth. Removing it, she smiled. "Welcome back, all of you. How did it go?"

Tricks scampered around the room gleefully, Squim sticking fast on her heels. "Great, mama, great! Lookit!" She thrust her hands into her pockets and removed a large cache of gleaming coins, stopping only temporarily to hoist them into Mama's lap. "We did great! Yeah! Lookit, lookit!" Any semblance of maturity dissolved when Tricks was around Mama.

Mama grabbed a hold of Tricks' arm and pulled her back. "Whoa, easy, child. Calm. You know the routine, no?"

"Ah, yeah, ah, yeah. Sorry Mama." Tricks came to a halt in front of Mama, standing stock-still. Squim pulled up beside her, uncertainty playing over his face. Galley and Marlo approached from behind and lined up as well. Squim did his best to edge away from Galley, earning a furtive smack from Tricks for getting too close to her.

Mama unfolded her legs and rose, setting aside her work. She strode about in front of the Sewer Rats, eyeing them all with the look of an eagle. She was the commander, and they her troops. It was time that they report their good news, albeit in an ordered fashion.

She came to a stop in front of Marlo. Wordlessly, he emptied his pockets in front of her. Two wallets, several handfuls of coins, a glimmering pair of earrings (the woman had been keeping them in her pocket, lord knows why) and a few pieces of wrapped food. Mama nodded and patted her unimaginative little ward on the head.

Galley was next. He bore hordes of coins, four wallets, the watch, several wrapped sandwiches (he and Marlo had made a point of robbing the vendors on the street), a few jewel-encrusted buttons, several military medals (stealing those was a matter of pride alone, as selling them would be far too risky), a bracelet (Mama immediately snatched up this prize and slid it on her arm), and a small porcelain doll. Mama smiled at his stash and rapped affectionately on his cap.

Squim was trembling. He knew he was done for. More than half of his booty was gone. Unsure of what to do, he simply emptied his pockets and swore quietly to himself, rocking back and forth on his heels.

Mama eyed his share. It looked pitifully small beside Galley's: a few coins and a wallet. Kneeling, she tipped up his drooping chin to face her, and spoke in the softest, yet most malevolent voice possible.

"Is this your idea of a joke?"


	9. Chapter 8

"I didna. . . I didna. . . Mama, sorry. . ." were the only coherent words Squim got out before cowering behind Tricks. He began to swear frantically to himself. He was – and they all knew it, too – in big trouble.

Mama drew a deep breath to calm herself, cracked her knuckles rather grotesquely, and reached over Tricks' shoulder to grab at Squim. She quite viciously grappled onto his ear and dragged him out from behind his sister, who, despite all her hardness towards her brother, felt a sudden knot of concern materialise in her stomach. Yet she said nothing, lest Mama's ire fall upon her, too.

Mama tossed Squim upon the ground, his nose to his feeble attempt at thievery. Eyes hardening, she grabbed the back of his neck and pinned his frantically gyrating body down. Yet her voice never once changed, always maddeningly soft.

"You think this is sufficient? Do you, child? Speak up, or I'll cut that ever wagging tongue of yours out." She allowed him enough freedom of movement to see that she had one had poised to snatch up a knife from the belts that criss-crossed her waist. His trembling grew ever stronger, yet now was capable of workable sentences.

"Sorry, Mama. . . didna. . . I had 'nough but a big guy got me and I lost a lot getting way. . . please Mama, don't stab me, I don't likes it. . . please, please. . ." His mewling pleas filled the room, echoing out into the darkness of the sewers.

"A 'big guy'? It sounds like you didn't follow my rules, whelp. Had you, nobody would have caught you. You understand me? Nobody."

Galley, it seems, was the only one with a backbone in that moment. He stepped forward, ever so slightly, to offer testimony on Squim's behalf. "But, Mama, this guy wasn't normal, we all-"

Even Galley's quick reactions could not have prepared him for Mama's speed, however. She had far more experience than any of them. She'd taught them all to be thieves. With a fierce backhand she sent Galley careening backwards. He tripped over a partially mended birdcage (they'd intended to sell it when it was fixed again) and collapsed onto the bric-a brac assemblage of carpets. Blood flowed freely from a wound her nails had opened on his cheek.

"I wasn't speaking to you, Galley. Hush." Her quiet voice came out as a hiss. She turned back to Squim. "Now, child, I believe I must explain something to you. We are, in case you hadn't noticed, thieves. We must steal to survive. And, since there are five of us, we must steal a lot. You understand? We need a lot of money." She picked up one of the few coins he had returned with and pressed it into the back of his neck contemptuously. "Without money, without gold or jewels, we cannot survive. Do you see? I certainly hope you do, Squim, because the next time you return without having filled your quota, I will kick you out of our little clique."

Squim didn't understand that last word. "Cl. . . ick. . .?" he inquired sobbingly.

"'Clique', you fool. You'll be out of the Sewer Rats. For good. Understood?"

He nodded. Instantly, the pressure of her weight upon his back was gone. She understood Squim better than any of them, or so she thought, at least: he was, at heart, little more than a beast. Whatever disease had stigmatised his already tiny brain had brought out the strongest survival instincts in him. The threat of being deprived of food, warmth and security was too much for him. He would fill his quota from now on.

Her first order of business complete, Mama now stood over her fallen pro-star of thievery. His cap had fallen off, revealing a thick stock of spiky, pale blonde hair. He was rubbing his head abysmally. "And you, Galley, must watch your tongue. I was dealing with Squim, and Squim alone. Don't you dare interfere again."

It was then that Galley opened his wincing eyes to gaze up at her. Those sparkling, genius eyes. They contained what both delighted her and filled her with dread. She'd managed to get the rest of the children under her nominal control: this one, however, was remorseless. He would never have the spirit of a dirt- poor thief. His was elevated, far and beyond the rest of them. She could see that, despite the words that now poured out of his mouth ("I'm sorry, mama, I won't ever do it again") that he wasn't the least bit sorry. It was a front. He was an excellent liar, that boy. Indeed, he excelled in everything he did. And that was what scared her. He was, in essence, her meal ticket, for he was a better thief than any of the rest. Mama, herself, had grown too tall to be a proper pickpocket, and relied on these children to bring her trinkets of value. Without them, how would she sustain herself?

But it was more than that. There was more to him. He possessed some intangible quality that demanded respect. It demanded one to look up to him. He was, in many ways, a leader.

"Good, then." She tightened her bandana, adjusted her clothes, and sat upon her bed once more. "Food is ready – but not for you, Squim, or you, Galley. Consider it your punishment." Reaching back into a small alcove in the wall, she pulled out a steaming pot (it had been heating on a tiny fire) complete with ladle, and asked Tricks to fetch some bowls. The young girl did, her former enthusiasm gone.

Squim and Galley clambered out of the hole. They knew, from previous experience, that it was best to keep out of Mama's hair when she was angry with you. Squim dashed down into the depths of the sewers, seeking another form of sustenance, while Galley simply seated himself upon the edge of the current and watched the murky water flow by.

But was he upset? No. Quite the opposite: he was very, very happy. He'd seen fear floating behind Mama's steely eyes. She feared him, in some unexplainable, irrational way. Once again, he'd been in control of the situation. The lad hummed gaily to himself, dreaming of his eventual kingship to drive away the gnawing hunger in his belly.


	10. Chapter 9

"Oi, Burger! Buy our wares! Nya, ha, ha!"

Squim was dancing merrily around a battered little stall in the middle of the marketplace, his tongue flailing back and forth wildly at the object of his ridicule. Burger, as he'd come to be known (his real name was Phil) was a large, moustached merchant with drooping jowls. Quite used to the erratic little boy who danced mockingly about him, he ignored Squim, instead saluting Mama as she approached him.

"Mornin', Mama. How's the day today?"

"Fine, thank you, Burger." She slid one hand into the folds of her clothing and pulled out the watch and the porcelain doll that had been stolen the night previous by her Sewer Rats, laying them side-by-side in front of Burger. He eyed them appraisingly, lifting the watch up to inspect its quality.

"Hmm, hmm. . . nice design. Quelig Works, I think. A couple years old, but still tickin'. I'll give ye three thousand." He rapped his knuckles on the top of his battered stall and waited for the haggling to begin. Mama was notorious for her inability to take the first price offered.

"Three thousand? My dear Burger, I would place this particular timepiece at four and a half thousand, and that's just for starters." She leaned in close to the big man, as if to emphasise her point. "I bet it's worth upwards of seven thousand, no?"

Burger guffawed. "Seven? Not a chance, lil' missy. Thirty-three hundred."

"Four. I'm raising children, you know."

"Yea, and they steal enough to get by on their own. You know it, too. Thirty-five."

Mama considered that. Three thousand five hundred was more than she'd expected. Burger was being generous today. "Okay. Sold. Largest denominations possible, please."

"Yes'm. And the doll?"

They nattered on over its price from quite some time. Squim continued his manic traipsing, ignored by all. Galley, who had been forced to accompany the pair – he suspected he and Squim had been chosen because of the night prior – wandered off into the marketplace.

It was like their home multiplied by a thousand times. All manner of trinkets, oddities, and junk lay about on the worn tables. Exotic smells wafted about the area, intermixing to create one pungent odour that nicely defined the marketplace. The vendors were all of Lower Valua, and as such, appeared to be generally quite ragged and disreputable. Most, however, were decent enough fellows, and looked out for one another. It was only through such an environment that a black trade in Upper Valuan goods could grow, and flourish. Burger was Mama's chosen outlet into the said trade as she had found him, over the years, to be trustworthy, fair, and most importantly, discreet. A few rogues interspersed would gleefully turn a person over to the authorities with the promise of a fistful of gold, and as such, one had to be careful.

Galley passed from stand to stand, gazing at the newest additions to the heaps of trinkets and eyeing older wares that had always tickled his fancy. But he refused to spend his carefully saved money on anything of only passing worth: indeed, he has his heart locked around one object in particular, and intended, today, to purchase it. He'd withheld just enough money from Mama the night prior to afford it.

His merchant of choice was a sallow, rat-like fellow by the name of Odin. Nobody knew his real handle: the man was more than a little touched mentally, and often associated himself with old myths. Psychological aspects aside, he was a cunning businessman, and capable of procuring some of the rarest items one could hope for. Approaching Odin's stand – a compact box like structure, complete with overarching roof and covered in heaps of jewellery – Galley hailed the emaciated man casually. "Hey, Odin."

"Greetings, young master Galley. How be you today, hmmmmmm?" Odin had a penchant for prolonging his 'hmmm's while simultaneously craning out his unusually long neck, making him an odd fellow to talk to.

"Fine, fine. . . do you still have it?"

Odin closed one beady eye and tapped his chin. "It, hmmmmmmm? What 'it' do you mean, young master? Hmmmmmmm?"

Galley smirked, adjusting his cap. "You know what I mean. 'It'."

"Ahhhh, I think I recall what you mean, hmmmmmm." Scratching lazily at his yellowed skin, Odin began to rummage about behind his stand while muttering to himself. Galley couldn't help but wonder if he and Squim were related.

"You mean this, young master?" He raised a small, gleaming, rounded gem into view, clutched tightly in his spindly fingers. Galley's eyes shone with the same silvery light that flowed beautifully out of the stone.

"Yes. . . that one."

"You have the fifty thousand this time, hmmmmm? Not just for show today?"

Wordlessly, Galley dropped a battered pouch onto the table. He couldn't take his eyes from the gem. It seemed to call out to him, demanding his obedience. Odin pried the bag before him open and surveyed the contents: fifty-one thousand and fifty gold, in larger increments than Odin was used to. This lad was certainly stealing from rich people these days.

"Mmmmm, fifty thousand on the dot. Thank you, hmmmmmm?" Odin was not so stupid as to turn down a free thousand gold when it was so mutely offered to him. He handed the gem to Galley and emptied the pouch into his moneybag, safely tucked below his feet.

Galley was instantly enamoured. The stone was cold to the touch, yet he felt warm as he slid it into his coat. He could feel its power flow into him at that instant. In that moment, and from then on – for it would never again leave his person – Galley considered himself a superior being. Anybody who was anybody had a moonstone, after all. He sauntered off, back to Mama, his bearing far prouder than it had previously been.


	11. Chapter 10

"Alright, little ones, listen up." Mama casually balanced a knife on her finger as she spoke, eyeing it lazily. "You brought in a nice haul the other day; it should keep us fed for quite some time. However, it has been said that idle hands are mischievous, and I believe that maxim. Therefore, I'm sending you out again tomorrow."

The children were disappointed at hearing that. They'd been hoping for a little vacation. Galley, in particular, had looked forward to practising with his newly bought moonstone.

"Your target will be the local garrison. I've heard that its new commander is quite lax when it comes to security. Get it through whatever means necessary, steal as much as possible while the troops are still on patrol – I've timed the excursion for lunchtime, so half the regiment will be working and the other munching away in the mess – and get back out. Do not spend any longer than twenty minutes, you hear me? I imagine descriptions of the lot of you from last night's debacle are circulating already."

"Yeah, worm, no longer than twenty minutes, yeah?" Mimicking Mama's violent derision, Tricks thumped Squim soundly over the head with her fist. He moaned and cursed at her, scrambling away to hide behind the half repaired birdcage.

Mama cast a cold glance at Squim. "This one will not be accompanying you. He will spend the day with me, brushing up on my rules. Isn't that right, child?"

Squim shuddered and said nothing. Internally, every child present sympathised with the misshapen creature: Mama's re education sessions were often quite brutal, if soft spoken.

"You may spend the rest of the day as you please. Dinner will be on at six." Mama dismissed them all with a wave of her hand, turning to a bit of sewing. Tricks joined her, voluntarily: Mama was like a mentor to the young girl, whom Tricks had learned to imitate with fair accuracy. Deep within herself, however, Tricks would never boast the kind of cruelty than dwelt in Mama. Her heart was kind, even if her exterior was gruff. Squim abandoned the hole in search of entertainment of his own devising, making sure that the other two boys didn't follow him.

They weren't. Instead, Galley grabbed hold of Marlo's patchwork sweater and dragged him out into the sewers. He threw his compatriot a lopsided grin and motioned for Marlo to follow him. Curious, Marlo complied. They ran down the tunnels, single file, Galley impatient to try his toy out and Marlo wondering what the devil the other boy had planned. It would be something neat, of course: Marlo had no doubt of that. Galley was inventive and bold. He never failed to provide some intriguing course of action to Marlo, a fact for which the slightly older boy was thankful: were it not for Galley, Marlo probably would have killed himself by now. The tedium and despair of a thief's life would be too much to bear alone.

Winding their way into a culvert beneath the marketplace – Galley had wanted to be sure that Mama would not find out – Galley came to a halt, seating himself upon the rough stones of the sewer. Marlo sat opposite him, pushing aside a dead rat that lay a little too close for comfort. It slid into the water with a sickening plop and floated away.

"Whatcha wanna do?" inquired Marlo, his curiosity piqued.

Galley gazed down the tunnel a ways, merely to assure himself, and placed one grimy hand into his pocket. He did not, however, withdraw the cool stone that his fingers had wrapped themselves around.

"Ever seen a moonstone before, Marlo?"

Marlo shook his head in the negative.

"Ever wanted to?"

Marlo nodded, though that was a lie. The compulsion had never once come over him – however, he had no intention of disappointing Galley.

"Today's yer lucky day!" Galley proclaimed, bringing the polished gem out for all present to see. It brightened the dimly light tunnel considerably, casting jagged shadows on the walls. Marlo's eyes grew wide in shock. How the devil had Galley gotten his paws on a moonstone?

"Beaut, eh?" Galley said, proudly. His chest was puffed. Marlo nodded, running his index finger carefully across the surface of the stone. He could feel little pricks of magical energy dancing across his skin. It looked like one of the moons. Or so he imagined, anyway: he'd never actually managed to see a moon before. Valua was perpetually covered in clouds, after all.

"What're you gonna do with it?"

Galley sniffed and tipped his cap up. "What else, eh? I'm gonna learn magic!"

"Wow." Marlo folded his fingers together. His eyes never left the moonstone.

They both sat a while, gazing into the whirling depths of the stone. The light it cast slid casually across the walls, forever circling so long as the stone contained power.

There was silence for several minutes before Marlo spoke again.

"How?"

Galley blinked. His genius mind had never considered that before.

"Um. Well. . . maybe if I just try. . ."

Clutching the stone tightly, Galley stretched out one hand towards the wall. He envisioned it exploding violently. Much to his disappointment, however, it remained fixed firmly in place, slime and all.

Marlo tapped the stone, a gesture that earned him a gentle swat from Galley. "Hey, you'll break it."

"Sorry."

Galley tried harder this time, imagining the wall melting away into thousands of silver shards. Nothing happened. The lad strained his mind as much as possible, hoping to tap into the power that lay in his hand: however, naught came of it, aside from a slight headache. He slumped back in defeat.

"How much'd you pay for that?"


	12. Chapter 11

"Marlo, don't be stupid, you can't carry that. C'mon, fullas." Tricks chastised the younger thief with a wagging finger as he tried mightily to heave a massive broadsword over his shoulder. It wobbled madly from his exertions, clanging against bunks and tables.

They had managed, with little effort, to sneak into the local garrison. No guards were on duty, amazingly enough; Mama's intelligence on the new commander had apparently been on the money. They'd skimmed around the outside of the building, climbing in through an unattended window that was left open to allow a breeze to circulate. The barracks were, at current, deserted.

Snapping up anything of value – which was, admittedly enough, very little – the Sewer Rats made their way through the soldiers' things quickly but meticulously. Anything that held even the slightest monetary worth soon found a new home, tucked deep in the tattered clothes of any one of the three youths.

Marlo relinquished his grip on the blade, letting it fall with a heavy thud on the warped floorboards. They all winced instinctively at the sound, as though it would bring the whole of the empire down on their heads. As it was, though, not a single soul was disturbed, as everybody was either across the street (at the garrison mess hall) or out on patrol. They continued the manic search for valuable goods.

Galley tore through a set of lockers, having smoothly opened each one with a thin bobby pin. Little of interest lay within, however, and the most valuable item he managed to filch was the frame around a family picture. Tricks occupied herself by searching underneath each bunk in turn, locating a few pornographic magazines that she covertly slipped into her jacket. If nothing else, curiosity dominated her soul in this action. Marlo checked through a few rather sparse drawers that lined the corners of the rooms, largely without success.

Frustrated at their failures, Tricks kicked viciously at a shoe that sat overturned before a bunk. It caromed off a wall and bounced harmlessly against Galley's shin. "Damn this! This's useless, they've got nothing! We should check the big guy's room, yeah? I'll do that."

Marlo waved a hand in caution. Galley nodded, agreeing with his silent compatriot. "Yeah, we'll run out of time if we do that. Mama'll be mad if we get caught again." That was an understatement.

Tricks scoffed. "Yeah, but she'll be right 'nnoyed if we come back with nothin'. You clean up here, I'll go look. C'mon, Marlo." Striding across the room, she clamped onto Marlo's sleeve and dragged him, protesting, towards the commander's private office on the upper floor.

Galley sighed. There was no reasoning with her when she made her mind up. He began the cleanup, using his immaculate memory to recall exactly how the items he'd pulled out of the lockers had been situated. The entire process of systematically putting the room back together took a full five minutes, at which point a blaring alarm filled the air.

"Huh? What's up?" he asked of the empty air, heart suddenly fluttering in hesitation. He rushed over to the window, gazing out upon the battered cobblestone-street, and witnessed streams of soldiers abandoning the mess hall to head back to work. Lunch, apparently, was over early today.

Galley's guts clenched involuntarily. He ducked below the crude windowsill, eyes bulging, and gazed over at the window through which they'd initially proceeded, across the way. Before leaving, Mama had insisted that they get out if there was any sign of returning soldiers during the operation. That time had come.

But what of Tricks? And Marlo? They were still upstairs. Surely they would have made note of the piercing sound and found an alternate route out of the place. But what if Tricks' insistences that they could stay a few moments longer won out? Marlo was quite the pushover in the face of authority, and Tricks could certainly project that authority upon him. What was the proper course of action? Prudence through escape, or bravery through assistance?

It was a tough question. Loyalty to one's comrades in times of strife is a defining trait in any person; yet, the instinct for self-preservation, not to mention the desire to obey authority, is great. Galley was a patient young soul: had he not been, he never would have been able to afford the moonstone that lay huddled in his pocket. He could, at times, be incredibly rash, but only when the situation did not threaten his own life. He required a plan for his boldness to come into play.

At the moment, his genius mind could not create such a plan. Darting about madly amongst opulent fops was one thing; attempting to outwit an entire of armed soldiers, quite another.

Soon, he realised that he had no choice whatsoever. He dashed, abandoning his friends, and leapt out the window. One would think that so young a person would be saddened by the prospect of leaving the only people he had ever formed bonds with to die: however, his was a calculating mind, from the very first, and had no difficulties with leaving behind Tricks and Marlo. Friendship is valuable, but in the face of instinct, finds itself completely impotent.

Galley was not so cold that he severed the bond he had with his friends, however, and he wept silently as he twisted his way through the back streets of the city, away from the site of his first betrayal.


	13. Chapter 12

Galley ran, traitorous thoughts streaming through his head. I left them, I left Marlo, I left, I left... and why does it seem so good, so right, to do that? He couldn't understand it; indeed, he knew all too well that what he'd done was abandon two of the closest friends he would ever have. The tears flowing freely down his face were a symbol of this recognition.

Yet, despite all that, he knew it had been the correct course of action: what good would it have been to get captured alongside the two of them? Mama, at least, would not want as much of him.

(And captured they were, by now: Tricks had wholly ignored the alarm, much to Marlo's protestation, and the surprisingly punctual commander had walked right in on them, flanked by his personal guards.)

The thought calmed him, somewhat, and he began to slow his pace. He tucked the bill of his cap down as he jogged, puffing with exertion. He'd never run this far before in his life. He didn't even know where he was at current. The alleyways were tall, repressive; he stood alone, a tiny sentinel amongst a jungle of unfamiliarity. 

(They'd been cornered, beaten down, and dragged out; even two nimble thieves as these could do nothing when faced by a pair of grown soldiers.) 

He slowed to a walk, pacing himself, beads of sweat running betwixt the unruly spikes of his hair. His breaths came in ragged, yet cooled, breaths. Even his lack of know-how as to where he was did nothing to frighten the boy. Nor did the fact that he would inevitably be forced to report to Mama that two of the Sewer Rats set his heart aflutter. He felt oddly displaced in this new, wholly different world that he'd suddenly been thrust into, bereft of friends (Squim was nothing more than an oddity, and Mama an ever lurking threat), and could not bring any volatile emotions to bear on the situation.

(They were being pulled out, bleeding slightly - Marlo was unconscious - and thrust into a long queue that was forming somewhere outside of the barracks. Tricks couldn't tell where, as her notion of time and space had been jarred by a violent smack to the head.)

He walked - lord knows for how long - amongst the trash ridden, dreary back alleys without purpose, contemplating the looks on his compatriot's faces as he imagined them in this time of abandonment. Tricks would be violent, no doubt; malicious and disturbing, contorted to match Mama's venomous sneer yet betraying a sense of heartbroken loss. And Marlo, well, his would be plain, for that was the only expression he could ever convey. Only a slight pleading would be in his eyes, wondering why Galley had done what he had done.

So wrapped up in these thoughts was the small boy that he didn't even notice a decidedly hostile group of beggars forming around him, blocking off his progress at the end of an alleyway. When finally he came to his senses, Galley realized that he was pressed into the musty jacket of a crusty old man, whose gap toothed smile left no doubt in Galley's mind as to who he was confronting. Deviant Pete was his name, or so it ran on the streets.

(A man was walking down the length of the queue: he was small, squat, and bald, wearing the most regal of outfits imaginable. A pair of blazing streamers flowed delicately from the back of his emerald armour. As he traversed the line of ragged malcontents and aged hobos, he pointed to some, clearly expressing interest in certain individuals while dismissing others. Those apparently considered useless were pushed off by the guards, and sent back to their daily, miserable existences, all rather perplexed as to why they were here in the first place.)

Mama had always warned them about Pete. A crook, thief, and generally disreputable character, The Deviant had a reputation for nabbing people off of the streets without so much as a word. The last lucid thought that most of his victims recalled - those who lived through the experience, that is - was his lacking, devious smile. Then, without delay, they would be severely clubbed, robbed of all their worth, and then dragged off into the depths of the city for Pete's own pleasure. Man or woman, young or old, it didn't matter to Pete and his little band of shady misfits: they would pass the spoils around the group before leaving the carcass behind in the streets to rot, or, in the case of the more fortunate, the broken individual.

Galley thought to scream, as he had no other recourse, but a brutish hand was already enveloping his throat.

(The man's drooping moustache, Tricks noted, was purple. She found the novelty of it rather lacking. Its sharpened tips swayed briskly as he tottered along.)

Galley felt a thousand probing fingers running over his body, seeking to penetrate his clothing, wishing to ruin the flesh within. He could do nothing: for all his speed, he was useless against brute strength. All he could do was wish, wish, wish that this was all over, wish that he was back with his friends, in the sewers, where everybody would be at least passing safe. But those days, apparently, were over.

As Pete rubbed salaciously against Galley, the boy felt a faint stirring in his heart. He'd never quite experienced something like this before. It wasn't sorrow; no, that didn't fit the bill. It was too fiery, too impatient; it was murderous. It sought revenge. Uncaring, too, of how that revenge was achieved. And Galley knew, in that instant, as Pete fell away from the youth in surprise, that his violent wish was about to become reality.

The entire area was bathed in light. Silver, malevolent light. It swam eerily around the assembled figures, slicing through their very beings with hard, icy caresses. One by one they fell, hearing only one final word pierce their eardrums: "Eternes". None connected it with the boy before they died: Galley himself was scarcely aware that he'd vocalized anything. Nevertheless, when the light had subsided, Galley found himself amidst a sea of corpses, Pete's own clutching in vain at Galley's shoes.


	14. Chapter 13

"Ahh, young flesh. You two will do nicely. Perhaps not initially, but, you'll grow into your roles." DeLoco smacked Tricks across the face playfully, sending her sprawling. She sneered but made no effort to retaliate, all energy drained. Marlo, still passed out, did not respond.

DeLoco continued down the line, ignoring the children in favour of a few older men. Tricks picked herself up slowly, wincing at the pain in her side. A few of her ribs had been broken in the exchange back at the office. Even Mama's occasional temper tantrums were never so brutal as the treatment Tricks and Marlo had received. The soliders, recognizing a pair of thieves, showed no mercy.

But where had everybody else in this extremely long lineup come from? Surely they hadn't all been stealing from the barracks. Could they be criminals? Social washouts? Tricks couldn't tell. It was too much for her dazed brain. So she simply stood, and watched a while, taking in as much as she could under the careful scrutiny of the guards that surrounded the queue.

Eventually, she curled up beside Marlo and went to sleep.

--

Galley wasn't sure how long he'd been walking for. His already muddled perception of time had been exacerbated by the sea of bodies he'd been forced to wade through. Prying Pete's dead, cold fingers off of his legs had been particularly jarring to his senses. Now, however, he found himself in the sewer: it was as though his body had gone on autopilot for a while, and led him instinctively back to friendly territory.

He couldn't remember traversing the alleys. He couldn't remember stumbling across the manhole. Couldn't remember descending the ladder. Indeed, couldn't quite remember when, somewhere along the way, he'd started crying again. The tears had seemed to have run out a while ago, yet here they came afresh, and in ever increasing gales.

He wasn't crying for his friends. Nor was did he lament his nearly lost innocence. Or was it still retained? For what he did know was that he, and he alone, had been responsible for the deaths of several men, however disgusting they may have been. No, what Galley mourned was this world that he lived in. It suddenly repulsed him. A single day was all it took for everything to flip-flop. He was a boy suddenly tossed into a maelstrom of decay and corruption that he'd seemingly never noticed before; indeed, it was starting to corrode his own soul. All of his dreams, lofty ambitions, and visions of grandeur were dissolving into a mire. He was going to be like this forever, wasn't he? Constantly on the edge, waiting for death to come for him.

His legs gave out at the thought. He collapsed onto his knees, crying into the sewage, pounding his fists futilely against the warped stone. Nothing was straight-edged here, it seemed. All was uneven. Could he find nothing solid to cling to? Would his essence be, forever, maligned like this slimy rock?

"Forever is a long time," he whispered to himself, raging in despair. Such a small boy with such large thoughts and concerns. Indeed, he was nothing like his fellow Sewer Rats, nor any other child of his age: he had come to recognize, very early on, that this was a world in which dreams like his were routinely dashed to pieces. He doubted that many were capable of preserving their dreams.

And then he paused. Preserving his dream. Could he do that? Was it possible?

It didn't seem likely: after all, the entire world was constantly pushing down on a person. What he needed was control, the ever-elusive element that any person in the gutter desired. Seldom was it granted to a person of his stature.

Control. Control would help him preserve his vision. Indeed, it could even make that vision come to life. His previous musings on becoming an admiral were, if lofty, still a dream of young boys: but now it seemed a necessity, a means to an end. It would have to be a step in his life if he wanted to achieve his ambitions.

What were those ambitions? He hadn't known, previously, but now he did: Galley wished to save his people. He wanted to reverse the seeds of corruption that had long since been planted in Valua. Nobody should be forced to feed off of refuse. Nobody should be trodden upon based on the quality of their blood. Intellect should, by all rights, be the cornerstone of success.

He had intellect. Moreover, he had strength, and could always gain more. His body was an unlimited reservoir of potential. He could learn: Mama had already been teaching him a few basic snippets of reading, and Galley often took it upon himself to sneak peeks at Mama's books when she was away. They'd fascinated him.

Galley could do it all, and he knew it. His dream, thought now ashen in quality, still gleamed brightly. Galley now knew, too, that he was able to kill for his dream, if needs be. The first few bodies suddenly seemed less reprehensible. They were, perhaps, better off dead.

It took a few moments for Galley to realize that he was no longer crying. Instead, he was biting his lip fiercely, and a thin bead of blood rolled lazily down his chin.


	15. Chapter 14

NOTE: Now that University is back in session, my writing timetable (which has admittedly slowed) will be dropping considerably from now on. Six courses per semester will do that. I can assure you all, however, that it shall NOT be non-existent, and I'll try my damndest to make sure you get at LEAST one update a week, if not more. The story is only beginning, after all.

Oh, and to compensate, I'll start making the chapters longer. Oh yes.

Squim was getting edgy. How could he not? His sister and her compatriots were an hour overdue; no doubt Mama was furious (and more than a little paranoid) at their absence. Which was why Squim currently engaged himself with clambouring around the sewers on his own, rooting nervously through heaps of mouldy trash in the search for some elusive prize. What it was, he hadn't a clue, and probably knew that it was just a way of passing the time. Anything was better than facing Mama when she was angry: her nearly shy voice only punctuated the fury in the room.

The emaciated boy stopped and sighed, heaving a rotted piece of fruit against the curved sewer wall. It exploded in a rain of fleshy bits and squirming insects, suddenly confused as to why they were airborne. It seemed a futile and bitter gesture: but what else was he to do? Ejected from home and estranged from his cherished sister (though he never admitted as much outwardly), Squim had no other outlet through which he could voice his fears but random acts of uselessness. He was imaginative, yes, but not to the point that he could allay his emotions.

Deliverance from this state of panicked ennui was not long in coming, however, as Squim presently heard a pair of softly treading shoes making their way down the tunnels. Soft, yet, purposeful; it was a gait full of tense caution, like a cat stalking its prey. Squim was excellent at recognizing footsteps (Tricks marched, Marlo shuffled, Galley wandered about in a rather fancy-free sort of way, and Mama never made any noise at all) and these he recognized as strangers to him. Having realized this, he ducked behind a pile of corroded metal and concealed himself, his pair of strange beady eyes pearing out between a gap in the heap.

A shadow erupted around the bend of the tunnel, arcing up the side of the roughly circular surface and appearing as large as a trooper; the thought made Squim even more nervous, and he cowered ever closer to the ground. As it approached it steadily shrank - allowing Squim to breathe more easily - and, in time, was found to be joined to the soles of a familiar young boy's boots. Galley trod stiffly around the bend, cap tucked low, arms swinging almost imperceptibly.

Squim shrieked. Galley was alone. Why alone? Where was his sister? All fear abandoned, the twisted boy leapt upon the top of his hiding place, pointing an accusatory finger at his fellow Sewer Rat. "Where! Where!" he screamed, making little sense in the process.

Galley stopped. He knew what his protege meant. "I had t'leave them behind. Probably caught by now."

Squim needed nothing more than that. His chest started to heave violently. The patches on his skin all attained a strained red hue as his fury and despair climaxed. It never occured to him that Tricks might be just fine, that she could have escaped: never occured to him that, perhaps, Galley was mistaken in his approximation of her chances. This was it, this was all, the judge and jury in his brain had already discovered the verdict of the affair. She was gone. Once somebody got caught by Valua, they were done for. Their future vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving no trace of the life once lived. All this now processed, Squim plummeted down from atop his ungainly pedestal and charged at Galley. He was responsible, he had to be, he'd abandoned them.

For all his tormented anger, however, Squim didn't stand a chance. Galley was too quick. Moreover, he'd been taught a few basic combat moves by Mama, an opportunity not afforded to Squim; his combat techniques relied solely on animalistic manouvres. He demonstrated this trait quite nicely by first attempting to grab hold of Galley and sink his teeth into Galley's flesh.

Galley sidestepped the rush, planting a solid shoe before Squim. The younger creature was sent sprawling into a stream of murky water, floating idly by as ferocious combat raged around it. With a mighty splash Squim was enveloped by that murk, cursing and screaming revenge in a childish sort of way ("You die! Agghhhg! Die!"). Had the situation been under any other context, Galley would have laughed: now he simply remained grim.

Squim flopped up onto the spongy stones, clothes soaked and even more polluted than before, still breathing heavily. Unreasoning venom seethed in his eyes as he glared at Galley.

Galley shrugged nonchalantly, attempting to be utterly uncaring when, in fact, he did care. A lot. "What was I s'pposed to do, get nabbed too? Alarm went, I bolted. Tricks shouldna gone to that dumb office any-" but there he was cut off as Squim leaped upon him, usccesfully this time, the sound of his sister's name spoken negatively spurring his limbs into renewed action. It was enough to catch even Galley off-guard, and they collapsed on the ground, Squim seeking desperately to drive his canines into Galley. It didn't matter where, so long as it hurt. They wrestled about, both tossing out every epithet they knew, seeking dominance: Galley, inevitably, emerged victorious, planting his foot against Squim's chest and pushing hard. Squim became a projectile (his extremely light weight made lobbing him about rather easy) and flew into the water again.

Galley rose. Squim had managed to nip him on the arm. Puling back his beaten sleave, Galley bore witness to the formation of a rosy bruise, punctuated by a few faint indents. The thick wool had been the only thing preventing the rise of blood to the surface and beyond. Now furious, Galley squared his jaw and waited for Squim to reemerge.

The battle, however, was now over. Squim realized the futility of it. He pulled himself up with a gasp on the opposite side of the small, dirty river, unmentionables hanging off of his clothes and skin like grim decorations on a dead Christmas tree.

Defeated and alone, he began to howl. It was the most mournful sound Galley had ever heard; the baying of a faithful hound who has suddenly lost his master. It carried up and down the tunnels, reverberating and twisting, yet never losing its sorrowing pitch. Soon it was joined by screams of "DIE, DIE" and other obscenities as Squim began to retreat into the darkness, and topped off with one final, condemning statement:

"NO SEWER RAT, YOU! NO! DIE!"

And Galley knew, now, with all of his new revelations still piled high in his brain, that his happy (if a little unhygenic) life as a team thief was over.

NOTE THE SECOND: Yes, I'm assuming they have Christmas in Arcadia. It made for a nice similie.


	16. Chapter 15

Why was he going to Mama? What was the point? The original notion of having to inform her that his fellows had been, in all probability, captured, was not at all appealing to Galley. Told plainly, he'd rather have had his gums scraped by rusty hooks. The fact remained, however, that he was softly treading his way through the sewers, as if by a sort of self-propelled homing beacon, towards her den.

He didn't fear her any longer, however. That feeling was long since gone. She unnerved him, yes, but that was all: he felt almost on par with Mama now, far more adult than previously. He knew all too well that she depended on him to bring her money. She required that he be alive. Yet, the feeling of doubt never evaporated from the pit of his stomach, and continued to nag away unabated. She couldn't kill him, true, but she could make life hellish for Galley.

So why was he still going? A sense of twisted duty to her? After all, the young woman did fulfil a matronly sort of role. She mended their clothes, cooked food, and occasionally told stories. Yet none of the children managed to quite cosy up to her. Tricks, the closest to such status, did so only because she respected Mama's authority: any older female would have sufficed in that respect. They were all painfully aware of her cold glances and uncaring heart. She was unbelievably selfish, and would have used the children 'til the end of days had it been necessary or, indeed, possible.

But it no longer was. Tricks and Marlo were gone. Galley needed no confirmation of that fact. He knew it, down to his bones; knew it as well as he knew that Squim would never return, either. If anything, he would go search out his sister – probably in vain, not that such things would stop him – for the rest of his maladjusted life. The niche she held in his life had created far too glaring a hole after her departure for him to ignore. In essence, then, Galley was the Sewer Rat, with no other acquaintances to fall back on. It was a sobering thought.

He walked through the shadows, the paths laid out in his memory, dreading each step yet taking them all in turn, and then more. In time, the faint light of Mama's hole came into view. There was home. But would it be home any longer? He didn't know. But the thought of his bright visions for the future gave him the courage to step into that light, and face the soft-tongued demon within.

Mama had been dozing lazily, but upon his entrance leapt up upon her bedding. Her eyes swept a bit too quickly over Galley and behind him for his liking. He stood in the entrance, staring her in the eye, not budging.

She hissed. "Where are the others?"

Galley shook his head. "There was a alarm. I ran; don't think they got out."

Mama had always steeled herself for this day. The talented young lives she'd taken under her wing were not invincible; it was inevitable that one or two would, in time, be culled from her tiny flock. But that did nothing relieve the shock that pierced her frame. "What did you say, young one? They are gone?" She began to rise, causing Galley to flinch involuntarily.

He looked at his feet, removing his cap warily. "Yeah. All the soldiers were comin' back, so I got out. They went'n looked somewhere and I didn't see 'em again." His eyes scanned the rough lines of his shoes, trying their best not to look up into Mama's face. Her visage in that moment of realisation had been too terrible, instantly dissolving any resolve the lad had originally garnered to stand up to her. He was just an awkward little boy again, writhing about in the storm of the tyrant who was now towering over him.

He'd anticipated rough treatment. Instead, he received a pat on the head. "Well, that cannot be helped, I suppose. At least one of you got out."

Galley's eyes bulged in surprise. What? He wasn't going to be punished? Was it some angel of mercy who had granted him this mysterious reprieve? Granted, he had followed Mama's rules in running; but he'd still anticipated some form of recrimination on her part. But this warm appraisal of the boy. . . what was behind it? The road from shock to suspicion was very short, and where other small boys would simply have been proud, Galley sensed even greater trouble brewing for himself.

He looked up at her, twisting his face into disbelief. "You're not mad?"

She smiled, though it had all the warmth of a corpse. Like a snake attempting valiantly to smile reassuringly while readying a knife behind their friend's back. "No, Galley. You did as I said. You are an intelligent young boy." She renewed her patting of his head, and he noted how very forced it seemed. Limp, uncertain, and without much emotion. She was putting on an act for him. Her face before, the first, had been the real Mama: this was a front, a ruse. Why bother? She never had before. What the devil was the point?

"Squim ran 'way. Don't think he'll be back."

Mama looked momentarily jarred but quickly recomposed herself. Another one gone? Damn. "Well, then, I suppose it is just you and I from now on. No?"

Galley didn't respond. His eyes were travelling across her body. His recent brush with sexuality – forced though it had almost been – had seemingly opened his eyes to certain things, such as how striking Mama was. Why was she in the sewers, anyway? She looked pretty enough to be an elite. And her sense of diction, too. . . far too educated. He'd never realised these things before. All of them had simply taken for granted that she was a smart adult. But no other adults Galley had encountered in his life were this smart. She acted like an elite, too, looking down upon the Sewer Rats and dispensing orders like a Goddess upon her pedestal of seat cushions.

She was striking, yes. Exotic almost, especially with her outlandish garb. But one could also argue that monsters were striking, too, just in a different sense. And if Mama didn't fit into the monstrous criteria externally, well, why not internally? Galley was certain she did. In that moment he learned what it meant to hate another person, as he knew that Mama intended to keep on using him as she always had. In this moment of rage he pulled away from her suddenly and made for the doorway.

He didn't make it, of course. Mama had been watching the thoughts roiling about in his head, guessed what they were, and was ready to grab hold of his shoulder when the time came. The boy was, as always, a bit too smart for her liking: but, then, that's what made him such a good thief. She couldn't let this one get away, not yet. Her fingernails bit into his flesh, carnal predators seeking to grapple the lad into submission.

"No, no, I do not think so. I can tell what you mean to do, Galley, and I find it very uncharitable of you to simply leave me high and dry." She pulled him back into her, wrapping her arms around his neck. "How could you dare even think of leaving poor Mama, all alone? I raised you, young one."

Galley resisted. It was to no avail, however: her grip was like iron. The mental powers that had granted him use of the moonstone before seemed utterly drained, as well. No incantation to the silver moon hanging somewhere far overhead would save him now. Galley was caught.

Mama kneeled behind Galley, arms still crossed over his throat and torso, pulling him closer. He felt acutely aware of her chest pressing into his back; it nearly sickened him. The thought of bodily contact suddenly brought revulsion to his mind. It forced into him a sense of restraint, of being kept from mounting up to the stars: so long as somebody held him close, he would never reach his goal. He would never save those people that kept him close.

But, then, he didn't really want to save Mama. On the contrary, he wished she were dead.

"You should keep that in mind, Galley. You are mine, for as long as I wish to retain you. Do you understand?"

He wished she were dead. But no gleaming silver shards granted his wish this time.


	17. Chapter 16

Six and a half years passed.

They were long and painful years, for all involved. A lot happened, to be sure: most noticeably the partial erection of Valua's Grand Fortress. Though hardly even half complete, the structure was impressive, its bare bones a sure sign of what was soon to appear there. The ambassadors of Nasr had taken the news of its conception uneasily – it seemed a sure sign of coming war – and their lack of enthusiasm over the project grew with every week. Thousands of tiny labours swarmed over the massive edifice on a regular basis, all culled from the lower stratums of Valua (though it must be admitted that a few aristocrats attended to the construction here and there, but only as foremen and 'professional contractors'). The upper class of Valua had seen the Grand Fortress as a sign of their growing power and prestige: the poor, as yet another way to keep them ground down.

There had been a great deal of unrest amongst the residents of Lower Valua over the use of forced labour when it became evident that Admiral DeLoco was simply picking people up off of the street. Dissent was quickly disposed of, however, as those who raised a voice themselves were picked up and made to work on the emerald doors of Valua.

DeLoco had a son by a woman that was not his wife. In fact, most people never even had a chance to see the woman, eliciting rumours that DeLoco may simply have chosen a random female to bear a child for him. The rumours surprised nobody.

A surprisingly young and rather bold pirate by the name of Dyne managed to steal into Valua with a small crew and liberate a shipment of Valuan war equipment and red moonstones. The Valuan military immediately set out an order for his arrest, but nothing ever came of it.

Admiral Corlus passed away after a severe stroke. His position would not be filled for several years.

Gregorio was given command of his first ship, a small picket cruiser with minimal firepower. Military brass predicted that it wouldn't be long before the young captain distinguished himself sufficiently to be given a newer, better command, and he did not disappoint them.

Young Teodora started blossoming into a fine young woman, and attended the best schools Valua had to offer. Despite being much wiser, however, she still bore a rather twisted personality, and simply engaged in more cultured temper tantrums. Her father had a heart attack but managed to recover to an extent, his health frail from then on.

Odin and Burger, still working hard in the marketplace with all the other peddling merchants, did not change one bit. Odin attempted rather unsuccessfully to get into the drug trade, and was quickly dissuaded from doing so by local dealers who threatened his wellbeing.

Tricks and Marlo worked on the wall the entire time. Through some miracle, they managed to remain together, and had grown extremely close over the years (though they could not be said, as of yet, to be lovers – it was more an innocent puppy love between the two). Marlo had managed to grow out of his quietude and become a robust young man, though he still lapsed into silence in moments of peace. He thought often of Galley, never once considering that his friend had abandoned him. Tricks suspected as much but said nothing of the matter.

Squim was a scavenger, now, decrepit and foul. He had a reputation for cruelty coupled with surprising strength. None of the soldiers ever managed to capture him, however.

All this leaves but two figures left to look in on, two very familiar characters: in all honesty, however, excepting Burger and Odin, they changed the least in how they lived their lives. Mama, the cruel governess, kept Galley on as her personal thief, now and then supplementing his skills with her own. His blossoming abilities as a pickpocket had kept them from hard times after the loss of the rest of the Sewer Rats, and Mama thanked whatever gods lay in the heavens for supplying her with such a useful boy.

Galley had grown bitter and vengeful, his caustic temperament evoking itself often through his sarcastic tongue. He was as much a forced labourer as Tricks or Marlo, differing simply in the duties he performed. The brilliant young boy with shining eyes was replaced by a powerful youth, his face governed by blazing irises. Simply put, he took crap from no one, Mama included; and she knew all too well, now, that he was growing beyond her control. He had never feared her, not as the others had, and for the longest time had come to think of himself as her equal. His thieving skills, at least, delivered on this belief.

Why did he remain? Not even Mama could figure that one out. Despite the restrictions she placed on his movement, Mama was fully aware that he could have snuck away dozens of times every day. Yet he always wandered back into their hole, bringing with him his perpetually surly demeanour. The typical teenager, really, except in this case, she feared his unrest. So why did he remain? Why?

He wasn't sure himself. He couldn't bring himself to leave, despite the fact that he despised Mama with every fibre of his being. His loathing for her idle disposition was more than enough to spur action. Moreover, she had, over time, come to be rather physical with Galley, waking him in the night by stroking his hair almost intimately. He suspected that she was losing her mind, bit by bit, and part of that process was an attraction towards his growing body. It revolted him. Whenever she looped an arm around his neck, he would always recall that day in the city, when the only difference between life and a raped death was the moonstone he kept hidden in his pocket. Hatred for physicality was a defining aspect in his life, and Mama always seemed to capitalise on it by gently caressing him.

So why? Why stay?

The fact of the matter is, some small part of him was still attached to Mama. She was, indeed, the caretaker: had he left, Galley would've been obligated to provide sustenance for himself. That was a step he was not quite willing to make. The biological aspect, too, kept him in place, as Mama had not lost one inch of her beauty over the years, and his burgeoning maleness kept him firmly in place, even while his mind screamed for departure. She may have been an absolute snake, but Mama was one attractive serpent, a fact that even Galley could not deny.

She had never learned of the moonstone. Galley kept it hidden all too well. His control over it was growing by leaps and bounds: he'd mastered not only many of its recovery functions, but that fateful spell of death which had rained down his fury upon the lecherous hobos all those years ago. The compulsion to go out and buy another one, of a different colour, was constantly upon him: but Mama's demands upon him for bringing in as many spoils as possible made it difficult to raise much capital for himself.

Galley had grown increasingly bold. His skills as a thief were top notch, and gave him access to robbing the houses of nobles with little difficulty. He pulled in a fair amount of money on his own. He'd garnered a reputation for himself of being the best around, and many warrants were put out for his head. Like Dyne, nothing ever came of it, and Galley's wanted poster (bearing no picture upon it, of course, thus making the job doubly difficult) yellowed rapidly on the walls of the city.

It was far from an idyllic life. But it was a life.

And then, it all went to hell the day Mama disappeared.


	18. Chapter 17

The day had started out relatively normally. Mama handed out an assignment – in this case, Galley was to pay a visit to the Upper Valuan marketplace and nab some goodies – and dismissed the longhaired young man with the casual flick of her hand. Galley, as always, took the task with as much attitude as possible (not that Mama cared, as she knew he would do it one way or the other no matter what) and headed out.

The whole process took a few hours, most of which included travel time in the lonely depths of the sewers. Actually stealing items of value took little less than a half-hour. The man, who'd not been home, immediately called for police upon returning and finding his home ransacked, but by the Galley was long gone. He'd come off with a small, gold-plated clock, a few jewels (family heirlooms, in fact), a sword crafted out of the finest moonstones available, and several thousand in cash.

Of particular interest to Galley, however, was his final discovery, one that he determined would never find its way into Mama's lithe fingers: a green moonstone, ebbing with raw magical power. He pocketed the fine prize alongside his old silver stone, and a blue one he'd acquired several months prior. Three down, three to go. His magical powers were considerable: Galley was fully possessed, now, of the ability to not only bombard foes with water, but strike glimmering needles into the depths of their hearts. It was an ability he so longed to perform upon Mama, and knew he would, some day. When he was strong enough.

But that day was not now, and upon returning home, Galley realised that the decisive moment might be a long ways off. Mama was nowhere to be found. This was an unheard of event, as she was always there to greet him upon his return from capers, usually with overly zealous palms outstretched seeking riches.

Not today, though. Her old and worn pile of carpets, blankets, and towels was abandoned. None of the cooking pots had even been brought out, indicating she'd been gone for a substantial chunk of the day (she was usually preparing dinner by the time Galley returned every day). Indeed, several of her belts of throwing knives were strewn about the floor, accessories that Galley had never once seen her remove in all his time with her. A few of the candles had gone out since he left, something Mama never tolerated: she was, after all, always on-hand to re-light the wicks. Something was most definitely wrong.

Panicked for a reason he could not fathom – he hated the witch, after all – Galley plumbed the sewers for any sign of his matronly overlord. Nothing turned up. His normally stoic demeanour began to break apart, piece by piece, replaced steadily by an irrational concern for her wellbeing. After a long six years of building up his emotional walls, the young man suddenly found them being torn down, his youthful brilliance shining through the gaps. Where, where, where?

After a while, he started calling out her name. All was done in vain. Only his own lonely voice bounced back to him, echoing into the depths of Valua.

A thousand battling thoughts merged in his head, all seeking answers to critical questions. Who would look after him? Who would clean the hole? Do the sewing? Feed him? Who would comfort him, even if in a cold fashion? Who would he talk to? Who would praise him? Who would he argue with? Even share his beleaguered dreams with? He'd spoken to Mama, once or twice, of what he hoped for; she'd merely laughed and dismissed his notions as adolescent naivete. But it was the fact that he had somebody to report them to that was the point. He needed, he craved, the attention.

That was it, though. Mama, the most despicable of all his former companions, was gone. Galley was on his own now, completely. Even the boss of the Sewer Rats was gone.

His mind rebelled at that. No, no; she just went out somewhere. Just because she's not there now doesn't mean she won't ever be again. Go back and wait. You'll see.

He practically bounded back to his ragged hole, briefly disappointed that nobody awaited him there yet hardly dissuaded from pursuing his plan. He would wait. Hell, he would even surprise Mama, and then secretly revel in her anger, by seating himself on her bed.

Which he did. It was strangely comfortable.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

A few stray wisps of breeze wafted in from the gothic hallways of the sewers and shut out the dim light of the remaining candles, one by one, eventually plunging Galley into a miserable darkness. He didn't even know that he was crying.

Where was the confident little boy now?

Would he ever be in control again?

Galley had never before felt further away from reaching his dream. In his desperation, Galley reached out for any dream he could manage – and wound up falling asleep, the visions of the unconscious his only source of solace.

--

There was a man before him, now, floating freely in space.

He was the most regal figure Galley had ever come across. Tall, with short-cut hair, gaunt cheekbones and a roguish goatee, his figure was swathed in a black cape so magnificent that Galley could only guess at its worth. Thin, golden chains hung in fashionable spots upon its heavy frame. It looked as though the inside of it was edged in crimson velvet. Yet all paled in comparison to his eyes: striking and magnificent, encompassing the whole world and beyond within their limits. Galley saw future, he saw destiny, he saw everything he wanted to be.

"Who are you?" he asked, his trademark cynicism when faced by a stranger temporarily dissolved.

The figure smiled, yet the curves of his lips held no humour. "You answered that to yourself, just now: I'm the ideal you."

And Galley knew it was true, for he'd pictured himself in that very cape a thousand times, possessing in his meagre body all the majesty and grandeur that the man before him projected. This was his dream. This was Galley as he would be, if he was successful in everything.

"I'm not a vision of the future, nor your destiny, whelp," the man insisted imperiously, "simply one possibility on a road of possibilities. This, too, could be you." With a wave of his hand, the figure brought a decrepit looking invalid into existence, bearing the same features as himself but garbed as a simple peasant. His back was crooked in all the wrong places. The thought of himself, years from now, as this sad looking old man – indeed, there was no fire at all in his eyes, just blue seas of premature ageing – sent Galley reeling backwards with revulsion. "No, no, that can't. . ."

The regal Galley grinned. "Oh, it can. And so can these." Suddenly, Galley found himself amidst an ever growing crowd of possibilities, of butchers and bakers and soldiers and salary men and jewellers and pirates and merchants and hobos, all with his eyes but none with any glimmer of happiness or satisfaction for their accomplishments in life in their bearing. All were depressed, sullen figures, for none had achieved real success, not that which the youth who sat buried amongst them longed for, that which now floated high overhead and stared down at him with those pupils so vividly blue and sparking.

He was sinking, pulled by thousands of dissatisfied fingers, joined to mouths that screamed out for a better life, for him to seek retribution for their failure, to strive, to achieve, to be. Be what? He asked back, frantically, suffocating, and they all pointed while still dragging him down, pointed to that man in the sky.

The caped man no longer glared down upon his youthful counterpart, however, nor any of the myriad of failures that surrounded Galley. His mind was amongst the stars, flying and reigning, unconstrained by any man or woman. And then he was gone, and Galley reached out for his dream, but it was too late. He was crushed by his manifest uselessness.

--

And when at last he awoke, Galley knew what he had to do, bathed in an absence of light as he was: he had to join those who'd so effortlessly earned his contempt for years now. He needed to become a noble.


	19. Chapter 18

No matter how good a thief one was, undergoing reconnaissance in noble territory always involved an element of risk. Slipping amongst the poorly paid and ill-motivated state issued guards was one thing; attempting to surmount the difficulties that privately hired, professional security guards posed was quite another. Yet Galley had no choice if he was to find his way up to the pinnacle of Valuan society. Indeed, he would stake his very life on the enterprise of somehow joining this pert, stuck-up, annoying class that he despised so much, for within the ascendance to nobility lay the path to victory.

He slipped amongst the widely spaced houses of the noble elite – rich of the rich, essentially – like a stealthy tomcat, eyes and ears ready for both danger and opportunity (or both, should the case arise). Every tiny diversion he could devise gave him safe passage past otherwise implacable guards, tossing small stones and generating noises from his breast that sounded very rat-like. He'd come to be somewhat of an expert in throwing his voice, an impressive skill that served the youth well in his ventures against authority.

Sneaking into houses, too, was a risk he surmounted with a cautious yet almost casual grace, utterly sure of his abilities as Galley was. Slipping into windows that, by all rights, should have remained locked was no difficulty. Yet thieving skills meant little in this endeavour: indeed, it was necessary to choose the right houses rather than the most opulently lined. This was a foreign affair to his normally simple life of plundering, and he really had no clue as to what he should do in his quest for notoriety. Were it easy to simply find a place amongst nobility, then the poor class of Lower Valua would have ceased to exist centuries earlier.

So, he searched. He observed each family in turn, listening in quietly on their conversations (and gaining an ample amount of blackmail material, though nothing that he could really use to his advantage) and keeping a mental count of their members. None he encountered seemed willing to adopt: indeed, over the weeks that he performed this service to himself, the subject was broached only three times, and extended only to other elite families fallen on hard times. His position as a lowly street urchin was not advantageous.

Those weeks were long, and lonely. The dream had isolated Galley from himself in every way possible: he felt almost betrayed by the fact that his future was not assured. In all his visions, he'd pictured ascent to admiral as effortless, a destined spot that was simply waiting for him. The rude awakening to the truth of his situation shook the boy to his core. That he was going through the onset of his teenage years, where isolation and selfishness are sometimes paramount in a youth, also helped things little, and he often had conflicting bodily desires.

Mama never came back. Galley secretly held out hope that she would, but his place as solitary occupant of the hole in the sewer remained constant. The only familiar faces Galley encountered were that of Odin, Burger, and the various other merchants Mama had dealt with, all of whom wondered why she was sending the boy to do her business rather than come herself. It was a nice change, for Mama had been shrewd; and while Galley lacked nothing in intelligence, his experience in haggling was minimal. He cared little, however, simply content with the money he made – it kept him fed, albeit upon a poor, junky diet. Mama, at least, had always supplied the Sewer rats, and later Galley alone, with nutritious and well-made meals.

Wondering why he'd been abandoned ran upon a side-track in Galley's mind constantly, however, no answer ever materialised. Mama's vanishing act could not be reasoned by logic, which in itself made sense as Mama had been growing rather illogical in the months before departing. In the end, it simply made him hate her more.

His idle time, which Galley deliberately kept to a minimum, consisted primarily of reading. His rudimentary schooling in the lettered arts grew by considerable leaps and bounds upon the discovery of an old textbook on the subject of grammar and proper sentence structure, allowing Galley to access new avenues of thought and consideration. In time, he learned to write simple letters simply by copying what he read in the book. His learning progressed rapidly despite the lack of a mentor to supplement the information contained in Mama's books. He could hardly be considered on par with most elite children of the same age; but, then, he was far ahead anything the majority of Lower Valuans ever managed to learn. The medium contented the lad.

The practice of both magic and swordplay became important activities, as well. Having learned the intricacies of channelling his will into his silver moonstone years before, Galley quickly improved his mystical affluence with both blue and green moonstones rapidly. Now free from having to hide the stones from Mama (he'd not wanted to reveal their existence before actually using them on her), he blasted about the sewers with impunity, attacking any monsters he came across. Though he didn't know it at the time, he even came close to obliterating Squim; the now hideous young creature barely managed to skitter away from a blast of water and return to a less dangerous part of the sewers.

The sword Galley had managed to pilfer came in handy, as well: and though initially clumsy owing to his somewhat poor upper body strength, Galley quickly built up enough muscle mass to swing the beautiful blade around without much difficulty. Style, of course, would come later – he just wanted to be able to use it. Again, the numerous denizens of the cities' underbelly went a long way to improving Galley's technique, though he began to doubt as to whether or not he would ever seriously learn how to use a sword. Still, it never hurt.

And all this time, though all the practice, the lessons, the hours of quietude and hushed conversations with the cluttered walls of his abode, Galley searched. But it was a fruitless search. Finding the proper family, one that required his particular presence, seemed impossible to find. The dream of growing in importance was quickly becoming just that: a mere dream. A fancy, one engaged upon by an opportunistic and overly ambitious young mind, one not born for the slums it existed in, yet trapped there nonetheless. In short, Galley was losing hope. His vision of that powerful, hawk-eyed man was fading.

Even geniuses have their times of doubt. Galley was no different. Coming home every night to a darkened hole, etched into the walls of the sewers, began to play on his mind. His sense of fortitude was wearing thin.

And then, one night, as he was reading one of Mama's books that he'd heretofore neglected – an out of date travellers' guide to Upper Valua – the youth hit upon an epiphany.

"The Hall of Records. . .? What's this. . ."

He pondered the discovery. It was a rather innocuous looking building, judging by its depiction in the guide: squat, ugly, and stretching for what seemed miles, the Hall looked nothing like a tourist spot (perhaps explaining why its entry was afforded little more than a paragraph). A governmental facility, the executives with the Hall of Records were charged with maintaining the paperwork of every even mildly affluent family in Upper Valua, from their tax returns to records of birth. Utterly bureaucratic in nature and perfectly boring to think about, this Hall got the cogs in Galley's mind working.

Breaking into houses every night was one thing. Sure, you got a good look at each family: but doing so took forever, and seldom yielded positive results. Moreover, hundreds of thousands of people lived in Upper Valua – it was a lot of ground for one thief to look through.

This Hall, though. . . it contained records of every last one of these families. . . though observing the records would be tedious, the process would certainly be speeded up a great deal: and, no doubt, the Hall would be rather poorly guarded. After all, who in their right mind would steal paperwork?

Galley thought about that for a second. Then, quirkily, he pointed at himself, and let burst his first gale of laughter in years.


	20. Chapter 19

As expected, gaining access to the Hall of Records was a simple task. Its poor security detail - a quartet of sleepy eyed guards who had never once faced a break in, and as such, were not the least bit alert - required no special tricks or dodges to get by. Simply sneaking outside their range of sight was sufficient. Galley could not have asked for a more ideal situation for looking for his answer; indeed, the whole thing was a little too easy. Not suspiciously so, of course, but from an artist's point of view (as Galley considered himself to be), the entire affair was almost insultingly facile.

As depicted, the Hall was huge, squat, and unsurprisingly decrepit. Thick stone pillars lined the front door, and were covered by two of the guards. Galley avoided this entrance, both out of practicality and dignity (thieves invariably require a flashy caper, at least in their own minds). Twisting black in a distended L-shape, the building sported four other doors through which Galley could choose to enter, all locked but also unhindered by security. Galley chose the rear-most portal, a small blocky rectangle that protruded out of the butt of the L (were somebody to imagine the building as a sort of pistol, that is). Smoothly picking the lock, he sighed in dismay. It was just too damned easy. The necessity for quiet in this stage didn't even exist, as only emptied office buildings and bureaucratic stations surrounded the Hall. The rats alone observed his progress.

Swinging the tall, oaken door aside, Galley peered into the darkness, lit only by a few sallow light fixtures. The passages were largely geometric and very coarse, leading the youth to believe that it was a very old building, indeed; there was little evidence of steel or other such metals in the framework of the Hall. He made his way down the yellowed corridors, attempting valiantly to remain cautious yet deeply saddened at how his talent should be wasted.

(It should be noted that Galley had developed quite an ego towards his abilities in the last few years, with the bitter onset of puberty particularly; he felt cocky when on the prowl, and always searched for trouble when it was not present. Such thrills kept the lad from growing too bored and lonesome.)

He passed room after room, filled with hundreds of thousands of files, the entire place a monument to tedium. The sheer scope of his task was readily becoming apparent, and after the fifth large library, Galley was already growing weary of the place. Judging by the mass of documents, he might die of old age before ever being adopted.

Luckily for him, however, Valuan bureaucrats and clerical workers were surprisingly organised, and soon Galley realised that each space was devoted to a different issue of the populace. Taxes, land grants, court records, family histories, geneologies, maps, contracts, settlements - everything had its own little space, divided into generations, years, and months. Indeed, the Hall would never have been so big as it was without containing the whole of Valuan history, or at least all recorded history, and narrowing down Galley's search became exceedingly simple.

The tedium was there, however, and Galley would have to return on three subsequent nights - each as boring as the last, for five hour stretches - to search the grounds for the family he sought. The fact that he knew little of what he might do upon coming across a suitable family remained upon the periphery of his mind constantly, like a circling vulture waiting to swoop down at the worst moment. He had no plan, no keen ideas about what he might do after this step of the process - all was dependent upon a sudden flash of insight, striking down his defenses in that one, pure moment of epiphany. His success or failure was utterly contingent on this, that he would just suddenly know what the plan was, as though all he had to do now was search for it.

It was a long process, for indeed, all Galley knew to look through was records of families; this was coupled with the difficulty of not being possessed of developed reading skills. Half of the first night was devoted to studying up on families from fifty years in the past. Upon discovering the blunder, he'd sworn loudly and longly, leading the guard captain (he'd been appointed as such through the drawing of straws, austere as the position was) to believe the place had suddenly become haunted (no doubt by some vengeful clerk from the beyond the grave who had just found out his old records were now in the wrong order). The thought that, perhaps, an intruder had broken in never entered the poor man's mind.

Three long, laborious nights.

Galley would not discover what he sought until the final half-hour of his third night. He'd already resigned himself to another evening's work when he stumbled upon a record of some note, one that set his senses tingling like no other sheet of paper had since he'd started. It read as such (in an abridged fashion, of course):

Family Name: Voirel

Familial Patriarch: Voirel, Desmond

Mother: Voirel, Lindi (form. Lacit, Lindi)

Married Nov. 23rd, 1XXX

Current Offspring

Voirel, Jelice (age 9 as of 1XXX)

Voirel, Lucy (age 11 as of 1XXX)

Voirel, Tomas (age 15 as of 1XXX; currently enrolled in Spartan Field Academy)

Various information about family history, geneology, acquaintances, occupations, social rank, and so forth; several references to a 'Samson King'

All of this was relatively standard fare until Galley's eyes ran across the notes of young Jelice, who, judging by Galley's internal arithmetic, was about the same age as himself:

'Contracted severe and long-lasting viral infections at an early age. Has been confined to bed in perpetuity, until such a time that subject has been deemed suitable for entering society. Isolation of subject has been prescribed by all doctors to prevent spread of potentially debilitating contagion to the populace.'

Confined to bed. . . isolated. . . interesting. After all, it was all that Galley had managed to find that seemed promising, and this Jelice appeared worthy of following up on. Still clutching the Voirel's folder, the suddenly invigorated youth skipped off to yet another room - it held records of seperate people, rather than families - and dashed about madly, searching for young Jelice's personal profile. It took almost an hour to locate it, much to Galley's chagrin, as the room in which it was located appeared to be in a state of reorganisation. Its huge filing cabinets lay open, with files piled everywhere.

Nevertheless, he located the profile in due time, and found himself a nice, plush chair at the head of the room to peruse it in. Settling down, he flipped open Jelice's file folder (and in this moment was suddenly struck by the incredible waste of paper in the Hall, considering how precious a commodity it was in the outside world) and gazed at the contents. It contained several medical reports detailing his illness - chronic fatigue, difficulty breathing, occassional bouts of severe nausea, and other such pleasant effects - along with a personality profile and photograph of Jelice.

His record had been updated several years prior, so the picture was a little old; however, that did little to destroy the rather uncanny resemblance Jelice bore to Galley. There were some notable differences, of course: Jelice wore his hair much longer, bore a very pale and thin face, and seemed overall to be much more sickly looking than Galley. Nevertheless, it was a striking comparison, and anybody would have recognized Galley in Jelice and Jelice in Galley within a heartbeat. It was as though Jelice was one of those divergent timeline versions of Galley, much as he'd experienced in his dream, one deprived of constant physical activity and a robust childhood (albeit a relatively dismal and dirty one). Even Galley was caught by the similarities, a realisation typically reserved to those not involved in the comparison but looking in from the outside.

It was undeniable. The flash Galley had been searching for fervently for took place. He knew, then, what was required of him: he would, without a doubt, have to become Jelice Voirel.

NOTE: Yes, I know I cheaped out on the years. Bug off.


	21. Chapter 20

"Faster, little fool! Faster! I swear, you've got the legs of an invalid." The emerald-clad admiral batted at his son with a twining walking stick (capped, oddly enough, with the sculpted head of a Chameleon). A brown-haired youth with pathetic green eyes, the boy stumbled and whined momentarily before regaining his balance. He didn't bother complaining: he'd grown up this way, humiliated and berated on a daily basis.

His father, the great Admiral Deloco, sneered at his offspring momentarily and then turned back to his charge for the day, the king himself, accompanied by his snobby princess of a daughter. All four had come out to hold an inspection of the great fortress from within its very guts, first weaving between the protruding girders and heavily armoured walls in a small skiff, and then disembarking to wander about the innards. It was all very disorganised, DeLoco noted with no little amount of annoyance; tools were strewn everywhere, hunks of soldered and fresh metal laying about in heaps, workers rushing around chaotically as though the world was ending. Curling one drooping, purple moustache vaingloriously, the diminutive naval officer made a mental note to come down hard on the foremen for such a lack of discipline.

He, certainly, was not lacking in such a thing, to be sure. As an admiral and a father, DeLoco demanded strict adherence to his rules and regulations. Any discrepancy between what he envisioned and reality was not to be allowed, for what existed inside his genius mind was as reality should be. He would no sooner brook his son to be lazy and complacent – even at two years of age – than allow his workers to act in a like manner. The swirling chaos of his mind belied this rigid belief, yet neither conflicted with the other much.

The king coughed. An excess of dust and other chemical remnants elicited the fit, not that it took much to bring out the worst in the way of heaving in the old man. He'd never recovered from his earlier health problems. Everybody around him, from the queen on down, knew it was only a matter of time before he kicked the proverbial bucket. "Erm, what is going on here, exactly – pardon me – admiral?"

DeLoco was at his peak when explaining technical details. "Well, you see, my lord, this particular section is intended – if I remember the blueprints correctly, which I'm sure I do – for a series of forward turrets. I have plans for introducing a much larger cannon size than usual when designing the fortress: this particular spot will boast a few such cannons." He removed his monocle and handed it casually to the young DeLoco for decontamination upon his well-pressed, frilly shirt; one wipe was all it took. Without so much as a nod of thanks the elder retrieved his eyepiece and continued with his dialogue. "They should be capable of firing projectiles several meters in height. It's an exciting prospect for our country."

The king nodded gravely. Teodora, though slightly more respectable than when she had been a child, cared not a whit for any of this military foolishness, and instead decided to nab little DeLoco for a jaunt. Senior DeLoco didn't mind their excursion a bit, waving his son away with a dismissive hand; the king made sure to appoint two of his guards to escort them on their romp through the skeletal fortress, knowing full well that he would have no success in dissuading his daughter. Taking hold of DeLoco's tiny arm, Teodora dragged him along into the depths of the fortress, sneering at all the dirt around her yet unable to resist the adventure.

DeLoco, for his part, was petrified. He'd suddenly been thrust into an unknown situation with a complete stranger, and one with a perfectly rotten disposition at that. Not that his father was any better: however, the son preferred the rat he knew to the one he didn't. Paranoia had already planted itself firmly in his brain. Had he not been his father's son, DeLoco would have blossomed into an intelligent, well-rounded young man, for he was unusually mature for his age. His mind comprehended more than most people would care to believe, and he was possessed of an uncanny memory. Yet he was doomed to be the progeny of a twisted madman, and the hooks of misguided insanity were deeply entrenched in DeLoco's character.

Teodora spurned all that she saw, paying token respect only to those they encountered of upstanding social rank. The guards, and the labourers especially, were forced to bear her malicious humour without a word in return. All knew that she could order executions all round with a moment's notice and have every last whim catered to.

They walked on for a time, Teodora largely ignoring DeLoco yet still retaining an iron grip on his pudgy hand, until a sort of bored realisation hit her. "Why don't you have purple hair like your father?"

DeLoco gazed up at her helplessly. It was a question he could never answer.

She sneered. "Hmm, sign of bad breeding, that. I suppose you were adopted. Probably the son of a guard and a whore." Her eyes closed, as though she were concentrating hard on the thought. "Your father is reputed to be quite the lunatic, so, it is not too surprising. You will probably wind up as deluded as him!" She shrieked in laughter at her joke, one that little DeLoco could not wholly comprehend nor appreciate. He was sure, however, that it contained some rather deprecating comments guided towards him. Such was the norm. They continued on, followed by their guards, both of which had a violent urge to smack the pompous girl over the head with their halberds yet never daring to.

It was only a matter of time, perhaps, before Teodora grew tired of her minute charge. She released his hand and yawned. "Well, this has truly been invigorating, but you are simply dull. Please go away. Come, guards!"

He panicked. DeLoco knew enough to realise his abandonment was imminent. In a moment of desperate helplessness he attached himself to Teodora's flowing dress – a grey, ornate piece adorned with yellow stitching, reminiscent almost of a storm cloud – and began to cry. Even visions of his father's beatings whenever he shed a tear did nothing to still the flood.

Teodora gazed down at him in disgust. "Peh, lowborn scum! Remove him from me, post haste!"

The guards had no choice but to comply. They pried the tiny boy off of the princess with little difficulty, after which she planted a firm kick into his stomach. DeLoco, sputtering in pain, collapsed into a fetal position, bouncing idly against a stray piece of wood in his misery.

Teodora then spat upon him. Bubbly curls of water slid down his cheek. She motioned to her guards, and they left the boy to his own devices.

DeLoco lay there for a long time, untouched by all who passed him – labourers recognised his clothing for that of a noble, and avoided him. No foremen happened upon the area. Indeed, it would be a cutting forty-five minutes before one youth, a broad-shouldered young buck with shaggy red hair and a dirty face, happened upon little DeLoco.

The clothing mattered little. He knew what it was like to be helpless and alone. He'd experienced it many times in his life. Without a word he hefted the boy into his arms and carried him off.

DeLoco was only dimly aware of what was happening. It all passed in a haze: the pain, still well imprinted in his stomach – oh, if only she'd not been wearing heels! – turned his vision to a blur. Mangy, forced labourers and a few fresh-faced foremen passed by distantly; the foremen yelled at DeLoco's carrier but did nothing to relieve the burden. Eventually, they came to a stop.

An insistent voice sounded, and DeLoco, beginning to recover, caught the words for once: "What, you crazy, Marlo? Put 'im back where you found 'im! They'll beat yer ass! Think you kidnapped 'im or somethin'."


	22. Chapter 21

"Aww, c'mon, Tricks. 'e's just a titchy one, and he looked so pained. Only wanted to help." Marlo pleaded his case, largely in vain, to a childhood amore who was looking for no excuses. The bulky youth knew his attempt at argumentation would fall on deaf ears – moreover, knew that Tricks had a point. It was indeed dangerous to saunter about with a noble clutched in one's arms, particularly if they were as big as Marlo's (intense physical labour had put a great deal of meat on his once paltry bones). Yet Marlo couldn't just let the boy lie about, seemingly half dead, amongst the refuse and tools.

Unsurprisingly, Tricks was not swayed. She held fast. "I don't give a damn! Leave 'im, or you'll regret it, putz!"

It was already too late. A small crowd was beginning to form. Despite their overt fear of being associated with injured nobles, the workers could not help but gaze inquisitively at the spectacle of this young couple bantering back and forth. And banter they did: though the debate was rather simple and repetitive, the two sides battled fiercely. Marlo had learned how to fight back, if a little clumsily, over the years. He'd been forced to. Though hardly imaginative, he was still bright enough in his own methodical way, and could hold his own against Trick's sharp tongue for quite some time. In this case, it was sheer willpower that allowed Marlo to maintain his posture on the subject.

The noise had brought little De Loco, his body still pained, back into the reality of the world. Young as he was, he knew little of the typical noble abhorrence for a commoners' touch: indeed, the closeness was rather reassuring. It was a feeling of warmth and concern he'd never been exposed to before. Or, perhaps, it was secluded to the time when he'd only just been born, clutched tightly in his mothers' arms for a few brief moments before being plucked cruelly away by his father.

In his jangled, innocent way, De Loco wondered why he'd never had a mother. The woman who'd bore him was never allowed to see her child past those initial minutes after childbirth. De Loco's father made sure of that. His child would be strong, and resolute; no coddling by some weak-minded, frail faced matriarch. No, his would be a man's world, and as such De Loco himself had set about rearing the boy. Being unpossessed of any viable parenting skills, however, the senior had bungled things badly with the junior. He was harsh, cold, and brutal, traits the man was coming to recognise as a mistake – yet his pride dictated he had no place in correcting himself. De Loco was never incorrect towards the outside world, and he alone had the privilege of doubting his motivations. A twisted, barbed circle of misguided intentions and selfish thoughts.

Little De Loco buried his face into Marlo's chest. The feeling of it was so good, so wonderful, that he didn't even hear the clarion call of his father when it first pierced the air. It took a sudden, vicious repetition, closer this time, to startle the boy out of his temporary sanctum and back into reality.

Elder De Loco looked absolutely furious. His jowls shook, eyes popping. The monocle that seldom left his face flew from its place and clattered amongst a pile of old rags and discarded sticks. None of the words he uttered made any sense, yet everybody present understood their meaning. Marlo was in for it now. The guards that flanked him on either side would make sure of that.

Labourers scattered, ragged cockroaches suddenly exposed to the light of reality. Tricks, too, fled: she loved Marlo, but her sentiments did not extend towards protecting his stupidity. Hopefully, he wouldn't die.

Marlo blinked slowly. That he could have been doing something wrong in keeping the boy from harm was an odd concept. Granted, he knew all too well that nobles frowned upon any creature of a lower class, but this was a mere act of courtesy. Shouldn't the father have been happy that his son was still alive? For this man did indeed appear to be the paternal figure, albeit a rather old one for such a young boy: the similarities between the two were as plain as day.

It took De Loco a few moments to suppress his indignation enough to form words clearly. What came next was a disgruntled mangling of the language, yet still comprehensible after its own fashion:

"Ooogh. . . you sick. . . oogh. . . down, my son. . . reeeeedown, put him down you stupid cow, you peasant fool, son of a whore looper piece of trash, scum, he's got a genius IQ and you'll never, down, agggh down, downdowndownDOWN!"

And with that final exclamation, his bestiality released, De Loco rushed Marlo. Surprising his escort. The old man seldom took challenges head on like this. His face, beet-red, contrasted to the pale white surprise upon Marlo's, made all present wonder why such an animal had been afforded a spot amongst the admiralty.

Marlo could understand the reaction. His son may have been in danger. Yet, it was a bit over the top: Marlo could have easily crushed the young boy's neck, had it been his inclination to do so, long before De Loco ever managed to stampede over. Rushing in put little De Loco in even more danger, didn't it?

Didn't it?

Or was the man simply trying to retrieve what he thought of as his property, something that he would accept if it were damaged, so long as the remains returned to his stubby hands?

Marlo just didn't get it. He didn't get it as De Loco's hands began to pry fiercely at his son's leg in a desperate attempt at rescue, the boy crying out and clinging all the harder to Marlo (it was a purely animal instinct to seek protection, one that he would pay for later with several lash marks for disobedience). He still didn't get it when the guards, leaping into the fray themselves, slammed him over the head with a pair of extremely well placed blows. And he certainly didn't get it as the warmth of his tiny load left his arms, and his vision waned into nothingness, and all the world congealed into brilliant stars and, then, black.

--

The De Loco clan was famous for its fits of hysteria. The symptoms exhibited themselves far too often. Many speculated that it was the price they paid for being so damned smart; after all, one could only be so excellent.

De Loco forced his son to walk back to the skiff, his cane rapping constantly upon the boy's heels. One of the guards was dispatched to convey his apologies to the king for having departed in mid-inspection, and to express deepest regrets to another noble family – the De Winters, cousins of the king – for not being able to show them around (they were De Loco's appointment immediately following the king). His Vice Admiral was called down for tour duty instead.

Marlo was interrogated and released after a few weeks. Officials on the work site recognised him as one of their best labourers, and decided the Fortress was far enough behind schedule as it was without having the youth killed.

Throughout his dismal imprisonment, Marlo wondered vacantly about his long-absent best friend, and where he was. Little De Loco had done much to remind Marlo of Galley. It was all in the eyes. Geniuses and visionaries carry a spark in their orbs that can neither be extinguished nor ignored.


	23. Chapter 22

NOTE: I just broke up with my girlfriend prior to writing this, so be aware that it may be a tad more melodramatic than usual. Who knows, maybe the end product will be better than usual.

The records had not lied. Jelice was a very sick boy.

Galley was made all too aware of this fact as he peered over the balcony in Jelice's room – yes they were a rich enough family that he was give a room with two floors – down upon the bed where this frail young boy was lying. He gazed into a withering mirror in the doing: Jelice was he, Galley, just in a debilitated state. As the boy slept his chest rose and fell slowly, but not rhythmically. Sporadic, convulsive fits racked his frame on occasion. His skin was pale, untouched by the sun for ages as it was. Galley had seen, too, the boy as he had been in a waking state: slight of voice, utterly sensitive to even the smallest stimulus, and coughing constantly, Jelice did not fail to live up to his written history.

Yet, for a constantly bedridden and obviously spoiled child (the room was littered with expensive toys and objects that made Galley drool with envy), Jelice was unusually humble. Perhaps incapable of rough speech, his voice was silky and gentle. Every movement was made with the utmost care, and no emotional violence ever seemed to flow through his limbs. Jelice was at peace in mind, if not in body. Galley envied this as much as the decorative opulence, taking place in the form of gilded toy horses and finely bound books of all sorts.

Jelice's parents had been in earlier. Both were surprisingly nice people, tender and merciful to their son. Galley could hardly picture them as being stereotypical nobles, snubbing all life but their own. The scene clashed with his normal sensibilities.

They'd read to the young boy, smiling softly all the while, telling stories of mighty knights and ferocious wyverns, powerful wizards and beautiful damsels, all enmeshed into quests of honour and majesty. And Galley, his back against the wall, squinting through the gaps in the smoothly balusters, imagined it all without difficulty, despite having never been read to before. These two boys were already one, somehow, connected through whatever book it was these gentle adults had in hand.

Galley didn't remember his parents, so it was apt to say that they could never have existed in the first place. Perhaps Galley was just some wandering soul, half of shrunken Jelice down there, the piece that would make both of them whole again. The cure to all ailments. What would it be like, having parents? Would they hold him close? Read to him? Love him? Comfort him? Despite his aversion to physical touch, Galley would've given anything for such an experience. In that time, the notion that both boys were simply two parts of a whole seemed plausible; more, Galley wanted it to be so. Could it be?

Galley had reached up to adjust his cap, forgetting he'd gotten rid of it long ago. His life, all thirteen years of it, was suddenly blended, creating a wholly timeless Galley that was united in its woe. Parents would have been nice. No, they would've been perfect. Galley, every bit of him, knew that his problems, his pains, would all be gone, if he had at least one adult to confide in.

And then they'd ended the story – a happy ending, of course – and left the room, quietly kissing young Jelice on the forehead and departing. One candle was left burning to reassure Jelice, in case he break into a panic attack from the enveloping shadows. Galley's vision of oneness dispersed immediately. They were two people again. Galley's dream returned.

But nagging doubts persisted. Was this the right course of action? Or should Galley seek out a form of guidance instead? Forget his ambitions? It was tempting. Perhaps he could just leave this ailing creature and seek out one of those other destinies presented to him. All seemed unsavoury, but Galley realised that nothing in life was perfect.

Could he have parents?

Who were his real parents? Could he ever find out?

Was a normal, moderately satisfying life possible?

Galley grappled with this question as he sat upon the plush carpeting, rocking back and forth gently, one eye upon Jelice's face. Despite the sickness that assailed his body constantly, his eyes were flat and serene, not even twitching. Did having so powerful a force as parents in one's life evoke such serenity? Galley knew, from the very first, that Jelice took little joy in the richness surrounding him. No, it was the love that flowed through his elder's gifts. It kept the boy alive through more adversity than Galley could imagine.

And he could imagine a lot. He'd grown up in the slums. His life had been a huge tragedy: stripped of friends, of guidance, of meaning. Galley had been forced to mature well before his time. Yet, this boy – and Galley could not help but think of him as a boy, for the glowing radiance of youth was still about him – went through so much more. Could togetherness do this?

Images of the Sewer Rats flashed into his brain. They were all, even Squim, smiling at him, and Galley was amongst them. That was his family.

But something was wrong. Galley saw it in himself. The eyes of Galley, between Marlo and Tricks, his comrades, were all wrong. They weren't sparkling. Shimmering brilliance was gone.

They were the eyes of a hawk.

And, soon, it was no longer Galley as he knew himself, but the man in the black cape, the Galley that had to be; the adult who, in order to set things right again, must be evoked.

Galley stopped rocking. He focused upon nothing, his mind stuck somewhere in outer space, half dreaming. Those hawk eyes bore into him. One demanded compliance; the other promised glory.

Jelice moaned a bit in his sleep, perturbed by a slight pain in his chest. It passed quickly, yet provided enough of a distraction for Galley to look down upon him.

Envy was gone. Desire for belonging, erased and replaced by a wish to get the job done. Parents? Their effect upon a person was negligible. One could easily grow to prominence without such an influence. Power, fame, status – all was perfectly within his grasp.

Right?

But no, no, the desire remained, the envy burned fiercely, a gem in the night of Galley's life; only his dream demanded adult sentiments. Those hawk eyes held prominence, but not utter sway. Galley attempted valiantly to resist, but why? Wasn't that what he wanted? Status? Leadership?

What happened to the admiral at his helm, garbed in the finery of kings?

"No, no, I just want to belong, go away," the poor soul moaned aloud, now rolling on the ground, bumping lightly against the balusters. Why was he backing out now? What was this sudden temptation to remain Galley? Why did his premature being scream out for poverty, for happiness?

A voice filled his head. It was that of the hawk eyes.

"You have already decided, whelp. Now your course is irreversible. Before, I said that a myriad of possibilities lay at your feet; now, you have chosen. You will follow. Your life is now mine, to come unto me as you will."

Why was it so painful?

Galley fled, fully aware of what he had to do yet detesting it already. The shadows swallowed him as Jelice slept below, bathed in light.

One, whole in mind but ravaged in body, the other fit as a fiddle yet mentally unsound, both identical at the basest level. The universe has a cruel sense of humour in dividing two beings who so fundamentally require one another.


	24. Chapter 23

Removed from their son, Desmond and Lindi Voirel appeared to be like any other set of aristocrats. More than a little vain, with a purportedly poor opinion of the lower classes, they fit Galley's expected stereotypes perfectly. Yet it can never be said that a person is two-dimensional in design; in fact, both held strong sympathies for Lower Valuans. Desmond, a high-ranking governmental inspector by trade, knew all too well the squalor the peasants were forced to live in, and unlike many Valuans did not hold their lowly position as something they inherently deserved. Lindi held this same conviction, though not as strongly.

Conveying such thoughts was unthinkable, of course, for their status as aristocrats forbade it. To speak richly of those below was tantamount to societal heresy. Their offspring, Tomas and Lucy, had inherited the views of the time, and considered any thought of Lower Valuans with appropriate contempt. Their parents knew all too well that to do otherwise would jeopardize their place in the Valuan schema of things.

Jelice was different. Hidden away from the world, not subjected to any societal pressures or class proddings, he could be properly moulded by his parents. In him they had engendered a truly selfless little boy, a task that had been surprisingly easy: his innate sense of good made working upon the clay of his psyche incredibly easy. Well educated, bright, and almost wholly trusting – naiveté is difficult to dispel when one is not learned in the ways of the world – Jelice was their true son. Though both knew he would not live much longer, they clung to him, as though he were an emotional life raft. His existence as a fine, moralistic young man proved they could be parents in the true sense of the word, rather than mere extensions of the world they lived in.

At this moment, these two surprisingly unselfish nobles were engaged in conversation with a constant visitor to their house, one Samson King. They lounged about in the parlour, Lindi sipping tea, Desmond nibbling on a biscuit. Neither seemed particularly enamoured with their chosen pursuits, but focused instead on their guest, who sat opposite them on a well-embroidered love seat.

Samson King was a stout man, of short build and little muscle. His had been a charmed life: a close associate of Desmond in the royal inspection agency, he also handled a great deal of the clerical duties as required by the court. This dual role kept him very busy most of the time, simultaneously lining his pockets with gold. He'd been born into the role, and only providence provided the squinty-eyed old man with a sense for his duties. A pronounced facial tic since birth marred his already plain face, leaving Samson no woman willing to become his consort. Prostitutes were necessary to fill the void, and he took advantage of their presence on many occasions – when he had the time, that is.

Indeed, considering how much work he had to do in a day, Samson managed to devote a large chunk of his time to other pursuits. A gourmet at heart – this trait ran throughout his family, carrying into one cousin that, in several years, would turn into an infamous black pirate – he dined out often, inviting the Voirel's on many an excursion to fancy restaurants. Being proper nobles, they seldom rejected his offers.

More importantly, however, he was the only person outside the Voirel family that met with Jelice on a regular basis. They'd developed a close relationship, though on Samson's side it was entirely selfish: he had plans of turning Jelice into a sort of heir to his riches, since no woman would become his wife and bear Samson a child of his own. He'd made many generous contributions to medical associations in an attempt to find a cure for Jelice's ailment. All in vain, of course – they'd made no progress in almost three years, and Samson was becoming suspicious that, perhaps, they were simply taking his money and doing nothing with it. Yet he pressed on, confident that something would eventually come of it all.

The matter of Jelice's parents still occupying the mortal coil meant little to Samson. They would die in time, at which point Jelice would be Samson's alone.

It was upon the subject of Jelice that they spoke now.

"Really, ye can't plan on having the boy cooped up in there forever, can ye?" Samson bore a slight accent, rather resembling the talk of a pirate yet far more sophisticated in design. His family came from the western tip of the continent, where such voices held purchase.

"What else can we do? He's dreadfully ill, after all." Desmond wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The room was surprisingly hot. Or, perhaps, it was a manifestation of the pressure Samson always managed to place upon the Voirel's to get Jelice out of the house, despite the sickness. Lindi nodded assent but remained silent, a sipping fixture upon the couch.

"Aye, but ye have te let 'im out one o' these days. It won't do to tress him up in his bed 'til he's eighty-two."

Desmond considered this, but only superficially; he knew Jelice could not be moved from his room. His fragile form would not allow any excursions. The motion was made only to appease Samson.

Samson continued. "Just move 'im out a little. To my place in the country, perhaps. I've a lovely garden estate – ye know, ye've both seen it – that 'e would just adore." Indeed, he did own a rather large chunk of land out upon the fringes of society, one of the few places on the continent that boasted trees.

Desmond resumed nibbling on his biscuit. They'd gone over this subject so many times that Samson could already predict what came next, and as such, the saying wasn't even necessary.

Realising defeat, Samson sighed. Yet another waste of his time. "Well, think it over, ye two. I have ta be on me way." He rose, knees cracking.

Lindi blinked. "But you only just arrived! Do stay for some more tea-"

Samson waved her off. "No, no, I have appointments to keep. The country'd nary be able te run without me standin' close to the helm." Naturally, they all knew that this was a cultured form of snubbing over their less than favourable answer to his proposal – however, part of the process involved not mentioning it. At nine in the evening, Samson would surely not have any more appointments.

"Well, don't be a stranger, of course. Jelice does so enjoy your visits." Desmond rose to shake hands.

"O'course. Give the lad my blessin's. Too bad I couldn't speak to 'im."

"Next time, next time. Allow me to see you out." Leading Samson by the elbow – he had to stoop a bit to do so – Desmond drew his friend away from the living room. Lindi offered a cordial farewell and then departed to the library for some reading.

The conversation had been cut woefully short, Galley noted. He'd been hiding in a closet the whole time, one eye peering out upon the assemblage. In his sorrowful state, he'd felt compelled to observe the parents more, to see what was required for one to rear children. They seemed of high moral character, and yet it was a noble character: and he despised nobles. All their gentleness turned to prim gentility outside of Jelice's room, and Galley had no way of knowing they continued to retain their more decent sides inwardly.

The room vacated, Galley pushed his way out of the closet. It was time to head home. Time to plan, to scheme. . . and to work another factor into the problem of taking Jelice's identity: Samson King.


	25. Chapter 24

"Hey, Galley."

"Hm?"

"You r'member your parents?"

"Nah, not really."

"Sure?"

"Yeah. Didn't have any."

"Huh?"

"Well, guess I did. Wouldn't it be neat not to, though?"

"Can y'do that?"

"Doubt it."

"Oh."

"Marlo?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember yours?"

"Kinda."

"Tell me."

-

Galley couldn't remember what Marlo had told him, all those years ago. Had it been important? Not likely. Tiny snippets from a child's brain contain very little credibility. Facts are twisted and changed over time, malformed into something that never was; a farce, a fancy. Yet Galley still envied Marlo his farce, wherever he was now. It was, at least, a thing to hold on to.

-

Galley planned for weeks. His ideas grew into fruition and blossomed, horrible and twisted, yet clear, concise. He knew what had to be done. Yet, before performing the deed, he required an interview. Sitting alone in his den, surrounded by rusted cages and faded beadwork, the dim candlelight his only companion, Galley desired to have a talk with Jelice Voirel.

He'd watched the family every night since then, noting every coming and going that transpired. Jelice was tucked in, quite promptly, at 8:30; his snobbish, whiney sister at 9; and the parents followed shortly thereafter, save if they were entertaining. Many guests entered the house at fairly random intervals, some warmly welcomed, and others greeted only with a surface cheer. Only Samson King ever desired to hold court with Jelice. The rest feared his malady too much.

The elder Voirel's seldom turned in before 9:30, usually reading in their library for a short time. Their collection of literature was quite impressive, lining no less than three walls and stretching up to the roof: Galley had never seen so many books in his life. Many reams of paper in the Hall of Records, yes, but unbound sheets hold nothing to neatly placed tomes in grandeur. Once reading time was up, the pair would retire to their bedchamber, arm in arm, a picture-perfect husband and wife set. Galley would often hear a subdued ruckus emerge from the walls of their personal dwelling, but left what was occurring within its confines strictly to his imagination, without further prying.

Needless to say, on an ordinary day, the house slept like the dead by 10:30, and it was this time that Galley judged safe for a brief chat with sickly Jelice.

And so it came to pass, on one cold Fall night, that Galley slipped into Jelice's room via his balcony, and dropped a tiny pebble down upon the pale teen's face.

Possessed of extremely sensitive skin, Jelice reacted immediately. A tiny yelp bounded out of his mouth, and was sucked back in by waves of weakness. His eyes, wide and alert, gazed around the room in surprise. Galley was no less taken aback than his virtual duplicate down below: he'd expected it would take a few more pebbles. The rest slid out of his hand, neglected.

"Hey. Kid."

Jelice located the source of the voice quickly. Fear bubbled inside his chest. Were those eyes peering out of the gloom on the mezzanine? "Who's there?" he whispered, a stab of pain in his side cutting the last word a bit short.

Galley paused a moment. What now? "Um. . . I'm a dream. You're asleep. Got that?"

Jelice blinked. It seemed a far more realistic dream than he was used to. Galley's somewhat ghostly figure leapt up upon the handrail, legs dangling. He peered down at Jelice like a condor eying his food. Yet there was no maliciousness in the gaze, but more a reserved curiosity, and Jelice knew it. This bird of prey wanted to play.

"O-kay, then." Cough. "What is this dream about, then?"

Galley cocked his head sideways at that. What, indeed? "Since when'd dreams need a point? They're just random bits of stuff."

"I have read otherwise, actually." The original fear was beginning to subside. And why shouldn't it? Jelice knew little of danger. Moreover, he'd never been able to consciously speak in a dream before – if this was a dream, that is. He couldn't be sure.

"Oh?"

"Indeed; according to some scholars, sleeping simply dredges up old memories that you have repressed. Hence, dreams."

Galley was confused. This one used too many big words. It was like talking to Mama again. "Oh yeah? Well, nothin' repressed, or whatever, here. Just a dream that wants to talk."

"Oh, okay. What would you like to talk about?"

Another pause. Despite his anticipation of the event, Galley really hadn't done his homework. What should he talk about? What common ground did they have between them? "Um. Why aren't you scared?"

Jelice smiled, a wide, beaming smile. "Oh, well, if this is indeed a dream, then I can't be hurt. Right? So why be afraid?"

Did this boy hold no suspicion? Was he truly this naïve? Galley had known, coming into this conversation, that Jelice had not been exposed to the inequities of life outside of these four walls – and yet, the extent of his innocence was never quite been known before. A soul untouched by sin.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess. But maybe I'm a monster that's gonna eat your brains. Couldn't I be? Aren't I threatenin'?"

Jelice's brow furrowed in thought. "But you look to be no older than I. I think, anyway; my eyes are not very good in the dark. Could you come down into the light, please?"

The light? Heaven forbid. "No, I'm gonna stay up here. I don't like light." Which was true, nowadays. Galley's skin had become just as pale as Jelice's. The days of training and vegetating in the sewers had sucked any semblance of tan out of Galley, and he was even paler than the average Valuan. His pupils did not react well to sudden bursts of powerful hues.

Jelice took no offence. He sought only to accommodate his unexpected guest. "Very well, then. Is there anything else you wish to talk about? I must say, for a dream, this is certainly quite ordinary. My room looks no different than normal."

"Whaddya normally dream 'bout?"

Jelice was carried off by wistfulness. "Just what I read about, usually. . . princes and princesses, far off lands, treasure, adventure. . . pirates, too. . . it all sounds so grand, doesn't it? I wish I could go on an adventure." Cough.

"Adventures can be dangerous, though, right?"

Jelice rose up in his bed, clutched his chest in sudden discomfort, and sunk back down again. "Yes, but, how marvellous! I would love to see some of the fantastic sights I've read about! To carry a sword, and sweep out into the world. . . Uncle Samson has told me that it is very bright outside Valua, and there are leagues of pirates that need righting. . . and I could make friends! Grand!" Cough, cough.

Did this sheltered lad no nothing of the reality of the world? Of its dinginess, the constant smell of decay, the reaper stalking constantly through the streets? Galley knew better to ask these questions, and yet he could not help it, for contemplating this situation was too much for him. How could the dirt not have made its way into this room? Was the shielding effect of Jelice's parents really so strong as this?

"What if you died?"

There was silence. Galley could see Jelice crack, just a little, in that moment. But through that crack lay a conviction unexpected.

"If I died. . . then at least I would have lived first."

And the plan fell apart.


	26. Chapter 25

There was a tiny crack, at that time. A sliver of light gazed through. It revealed a woman's face.

-

Never had a well-laid plan been so quickly and efficiently dismembered. All ideas, contingencies, and outcomes shattered; what lay underneath, instead, was simple curiosity.

Galley had once been a part of a ragged family. The Sewer Rats. But he'd never fully identified with any of them. Indeed, it was a sort of disassociated fraternity, with goodwill lying at the centre but great distances separating each member. They'd been siblings, but not in the most intimate sense of the word.

Jelice was different. Galley could sense no gap, despite their desperately varying backgrounds and upbringings. He was a kindred spirit, down to the core. They could relate on a level beyond mere words. The term 'soul mate' would best describe their relationship.

His ideas of replacing the boy suddenly scattered to the wind, Galley instead spent his time visiting Jelice (but always after dark). Convincing Jelice of his dream-vision status was relatively simple: he would simply display some of his moonstone bequeathed powers for the boy to wonder over. Jelice knew all about the moons, not to mention their mystical properties, but had never once beheld their effects with his own eyes. The wonderment contained therein every time Galley performed even the slightest of tricks

(Why did that word sound so familiar to him?)

filled Galley with a pride in his accomplishments he'd never before felt. So this is what it was to be appreciated, unconditionally and fully.

The days spent in his hole were no longer filled with despair. Instead, it was a joyous time of anticipation, of longing for the night. Galley developed a keen sense of how long it would be before he could spend more time with Jelice. He didn't even bother to question why he'd become so deeply enamoured with pleasing and being pleased by Jelice in so short a time. It was just that natural, and right.

He made more trips to the surface. His egregious temperament was replaced by something lighter, more playful. Though still possessed of a bad attitude, it was no longer malicious. Burger could not help but notice this on Galley's frequent trips to the marketplace, though in his opinion the surly Galley had been easier to handle. Playful Galley had a habit of juggling Burger's trinkets about as they haggled, playing with all the doodads he could get his hands on. The thought of any of his wares breaking annoyed Burger greatly. Moreover, the whole experience turned Galley into a better negotiator, and items that would've gone for a mid-range price in the previous weeks now found their way into Burger's hands for inflated prices.

He'd never been appreciated before. Ever.

Hadn't he?

Galley wasn't sure anymore. Perhaps one of the Sewer Rats. . . well, it didn't much matter. They were all gone now. Only Jelice remained. A true friend. A brother.

"What is your name, exactly?" Jelice inquired politely, on one of Galley's first visits. As would be his custom, Galley sat perched on the railing of the stairs, legs dangling.

"Hmm. . . can't tell ya."

"Aww, why not? I should like to know the identity of my most persisting dream."

"Persistin'? I've only been showin' up for a week now."

Jelice paused at that. It seemed longer. "Yes, well. . . if you are intending to appear every night, then I would prefer to be aware of your nom de plume."

"My wha? That a fruit?"

Jelice laughed, but was cut short by a sputtering cough. Galley forced himself to remain in place, fighting off the instinct to help his sickly charge. The fit would pass quickly.

"Ahem, my apologies. . . 'nom de plume' is another way of saying 'name'. Or so I have heard, anyways."

"Ya don't say."

Silence.

"Why do you keep coming back, exactly?"

Galley anticipated the question far in advance. Who wouldn't? It was perfectly valid. Recurring dreams came pinned with express purpose. Yet Galley had no answer. He couldn't even explain it to himself.

"You look like ya need some company. S'all."

He could see Jelice smile.

"Ahh. Well. I will not fault you on that, as I could use another voice every now and then. Despite mother and father, and uncle Samson, it does get rather lonely in here." His countenance was tinged with tragedy, yet he did not force any of it upon Galley. It was his alone to bear. In this, Jelice Voirel was remarkably mature. "I fully appreciate your presence, good sir. Thank you for our conversations."

And they had many, over the weeks and months that followed. Every night, Galley would sneak his way into Jelice's room, sit atop the railing like some benevolent eagle

(Hawk?)

and discuss all manner of things with Jelice. The subjects ranged far and wide, from planned adventures to wistful, poignant desires on both sides. It was a give and take relationship, with no greed from either party. Each boy craved company, and that alone.

Galley began to read more. His brain absorbed information like a sponge. All was regurgitated to Jelice, who knew some tidbits, was astounded at others, and spoke upon subjects foreign to Galley. They existed in a state of dual schooling.

With increasing boldness, Galley snuck in several times during the day on a few occasions, watching Jelice from between the balustrade. He'd been forced to improve his covert skills, for Jelice looked up upon the balcony often now, perhaps searching for his dreamtime guardian. Galley noted the comings and goings of Jelice's parents, not to mention Samson King, a man he'd come to thoroughly dislike.

It was a purely instinctual loathing, for Samson seldom did anything to upset Jelice. Indeed, he acted even more kindly than the parents themselves, showering Jelice with toys, reading him stories, even going so far as to help the emaciated lad shift about (so as to prevent bed sores) in times of pain. He'd even gotten Jelice up on to his shoulders at one point and paraded him around the room like some prize mount, though he'd made his jockey promise not to inform his parents as to the spectacle's nature.

Yet, despite all the kindness, Galley could sense greed. That integral component to self-serving relationships. Jelice had something that Samson craved. That Samson wanted an heir was not apparent to Galley, yet his guesses on the subject weren't far off that mark. He said nothing of Samson, however, to Jelice himself.

For his part, Jelice said nothing of his 'dreams'. A slight paranoia existed within him, a fear that exposing the source of his recent joys would cause it to disperse forever. Galley was all too happy to keep their rendezvous a secret.

Their bond was so complete, so concrete, that Galley never even realised it had come to define his life. Entire portions of his brain seemed wholly dedicated to maintaining it.

"Do you have any family?"

"Nah."

"I thought that was somewhat compulsory."

"Not when yer a dream, dummy."

Laughter.

"Well, would you like to have one? Perhaps I could dream some up for you."

"Eh? Nah, s'okay."

"Are you sure? According to my reading, this sort of thing is what researchers call a 'lucid' dream. I should have control over it. As such, I should think it very possible to make one."

"That so? Well, if yer so all-powerful, turn my head into. . . ahh. . . a loqua bottle."

"What is loqua?"

"What, you've never heard 'o loqua before?"

"I do not think so."

"You read all those stories 'bout pirates and knights and that junk, and you ain't never heard of loqua? Wow. The spirits, you know. Booze."

"Ohh, liquor. Understood."

"Well?"

"It doesn't appear to be working. Hm."

"Guess this ain't no lucid dream, then, eh?"

"How disappointing."

Silence.

"Have you ever had any friends? Aside from me, that is."

Shrug. "I guess. I'm a dream, though. Y'know. You made me up."

"True, but I'm surprised I did not also give you some compatriots."

"Maybe it's 'cuz you don't have any of yer own?"

The sadness evoked by this comment was almost palpable.

"Er, but, that don't matter none. Friends ain't all they're cracked up ta be."

(twisted his way through the back streets of the city, away from the site of his first betrayal)

"Well, I don't know about that. But they seem nice to me. Adventures can be had without friends, no? I wouldn't think one could survive very long, out amongst the skies, without a hearty band of chums to fall back on. It is. . . what is the matter?"

But Galley was already gone, his shoes disappearing over the side of the railing.

-

Fragments. Pieces. That's all it was, floating about, flotsam and jetsam. Considering it all as he ran, those same tears fleeing down his cheeks, Galley wondered when, exactly, his past had almost wholly abandoned him in favour of a joyous present.


	27. Chapter 26

A man, slight yet spirited.

-

What was he doing? Where was he going? Had he any purpose now? Why was everything so fragmented, now, and always? Ever since that day. . . what day? Which? When? What had happened on this day?

Could he remember?

Not really. Even his name was sliding out of reality. Something naval related. . . ship, ship. . . enclosed. . . brig? No, not quite.

Where was he now? Everything was a blur. Past, present, future, all rolled into a miasma of confusion. Confliction. Ship, ship. . . was he a sailor? An officer? The admiral of the world? A fool? The last, more than likely.

Ship, ship. Ship, ship.

Corvette?

No. Simple minded, stupid. . . why, why. . . what was going on? Was he crying? Why was he crying? Were these tears of blood or sand? Did it matter? Ship, ship. . .

It was a tenuous handhold at best. The ground shifted, cataclysmically, calling for the ruin of times. He fell. Ship, ship. . . ah, it may not be blood flowing from my eyes, he thought, but that sure as hell is from my nose.

("You r'member your parents?")

Ship. . . ship? Was it Ship? No, foolish, useless. Let me curl up into a ball, here, and think on it a bit; I won't get in anyone's way. Just step over the trash like good pedestrians of the night. But why trash? What crime had been committed? Memories flowed freely, forever eluding grasp. Devoid of texture. Fleeting, as thoughts are apt to be.

"Why so chaotic?" It was a word he'd read in a book. Which, now lost. It made him sound rather adult to his own ears. Ship, ship. . . hum.

The rain was pattering down. Pathetic fallacy. He knew nothing of the phrase, yet it still seemed rather apt. This was, after all, quite pathetic. Drip, drip. . . do I see a ship sauntering its way down the alleys, propelled by this rain? Or is that just garbage? A valid question, in this state of mind.

("Nah, not really.")

Was that true? What was it in the first place? Why so many whys? Are these drops of heavenly condensation on his face, or depression distilled? Both? Neither?

And then he was called away, pulled, bodily, into darkness. Into his dream, that which he'd forsaken months ago. A dream, a nightmare, one and the same.

-

He could remember the hawk eyes now, at least. They were boring holes into his skull. Filled with every kind of malice and hunger to be found in the world, or any other.

Ship. . . Galley.

Unconsciousness brought clarity, and therefore answers. But only some: many memories continued to flit about, tangible in this realm, willing to be touched but only for a second or two. Tip of the tongue phenomenon. Annoyingly real.

But his attention was torn away from these sailing thoughts. Other things demanded attention. The eyes, the eyes. A stern, commanding voice filled every corner of the cosmos, forcing its will upon Galley. He looked up into those eyes, for the first time in his life completely and unconditionally filled with fear.

"I HAVE ALLOWED YOU A FORM OF CLEMENCY UP TO THIS POINT, WHELP, BUT YOU STRETCH MY PATIENCE TO ITS LIMIT. THIS PLAN SHOULD HAVE BEEN ACTED UPON MONTHS AGO."

Terror, terror. Nebulous patterns surrounding creation began to swim with inky redness.

"I TOLD YOU BEFORE: YOU ARE NOW MINE. YOU GAVE YOURSELF FREELY TO MY CAUSE. TO REJECT ME IS TO REJECT YOUR EXISTENCE. ALLOW ME TO BE FRANK; I WILL NOT TOLERATE ANY MORE OF YOUR INSUBORDINATE BULLSHIT."

No, not the plan, anything. . . not it. He begged, cajoled, sought out bargains. All to no avail. The voice overpowered any plea.

"YOU LINGER TOO LONG UPON THIS BOY. HE IS A MERE STEPPING STONE. YOUR IDEA THAT ALL MUST INVARIABLY BECOME EQUAL IS FLAWED, FOR TO REACH THE SKY YOU MUST TREAD UPON THE BONES OF OTHERS. ENACT THE PLAN, OR I WILL DESTROY YOU AND DO IT MYSELF."

Galley imagined that talking to God – if there was one – must be something like this. For all he knew, this was God, touching Galley's vision and demanding compliance. This was his last thought before all fell away into darkness again, but it was not over: no, now claws began to rip at his mind, unclogging all the pathways, revealing the limits of Galley's memories. The Sewer Rats. He'd forgotten all of them. Mama, Marlo, Squim, Tricks. . . Marlo? Friend?

Had Marlo shown him mercy? Appreciation? Had Galley forgotten that?

The claws were merciless. More and more fell out of the repositories of his brain. All the closets flew open. All was accessible. The most damning apotheosis of thought and form. Pain, pain. . . please stop, he desired, but to no avail. . .

"YOU WILL SEE. IT IS INEVITABLE, NOW. THERE ARE NO OTHER FUTURES FOR YOU BUT MINE."

-

Galley awoke, finally, soaked from head to toe. Rain continued to dance across his form. His head, maliciously cleared as it was, felt somehow lighter, as though a great burden had been lifted. There weren't any more questions.

Yet something was fundamentally different about him. Rising from his crumpled spot upon the pavement, out in the middle of – one of the alleys, he thought – his posture seemed somehow wrong. It was graceful, as usual, but the grace of a beast. His limbs moved with natural fluidity. His neck arched back, majestically, like a swan, to gaze up into the blackened sky.

Before, his imagination allowed him to envision what lay beyond those clouds. There was no longer any envisioning, no guesswork. He knew. The sky was his, and all the land, too; he was a part of it now.

Galley began to walk. Before, his gait was wide, swaggering; that of a teenager. But now, now, it held purpose. It was control. Imperious might. Long, close-heeled steps. The steady march of a soldier heading to war.

A beggar, sheltered within a trashcan, noticed this straight-backed young man striding past his shelter. He decided Galley would make a perfect target for a mugging. He leapt out, rusty knife pulled, a threatening growl ready to emerge from his mucus lined throat: but it never made it, because the garbage contained therein exploded into flames. The hobo was incinerated.

Cremation in a can. Galley laughed.

When had he acquired a red moonstone, exactly? Perhaps it was earlier – Galley realised he'd been walking for quite some time, now, more than two hours – when he'd paid a visit to Odin's home, on the outskirts of the marketplace. The flames still smouldered there, magically potent. Where had the time gone?

Did it matter?

"Nah." Another laugh.

-

Jelice was still awake, nearing three in the morning, when Galley returned. His clothes rained down upon the carpeting in Jelice's posh room.

Jelice, hoping his friend would return, was instead faced with what seemed to be a twisted copy of him. The same proportions, yet completely different in the core. What was this thing that now adorned his railing?

"Oh, my. You scared me. Where did you go?"

Galley, stretching one hand out luxuriously to inspect his fingernails, responded with a simple 'out'.

"I. . . see." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Forgive my forthright attitude, but you seem. . . different. And I mean that on a level beyond your bedraggled clothes. My, what a realistic dream this one is; mother will have a fit tomorrow."

The inspection ended abruptly. "A dream. . . yeah. Ha ha. You know," Galley said, stretching his legs and sending droplets flying in all directions, "I think it's about time we see each other face to face. Real chummy, y'know?"

Jelice nodded. Muteness invaded his lips.

"Glad we agree. Down I go!" And with that, Galley slid down the banister, cackling all the way, yet retaining a distorted dignity about himself. He could well have been mounted atop a stallion. One graceful leap brought him face to face with poor emaciated Jelice, now scared out of his wits.

"C'mon. Say somethin'. Anything. I'm not picky."

"I. . . you've. . . got a very striking face, there."

And indeed Galley did; his spiky blonde hair lay slicked back by the rain, allowing every one of his facial features to shine with cold light. His mouth was curved upwards in a humourless smile. His cheeks, surprisingly rosy, rose up upon a gaunt skull. His eyebrows arched inwards, almost connecting at the cross of his nose yet not quite daring to. His teeth, though stained and yellow, seemed to sparkle.

And the eyes. Those marvellous, blue eyes, so often filled with wonderment, with genius, with awe - they were slanted, narrow. Gazing forever. They could pierce a man's soul. No confusion was contained therein, only deadly purpose. He had hawk's eyes.

"I want a name," the stranger said, pulling his lips back to display a toothy grin. His canines appeared to be unusually sharp.

"Wh. . . what?"

"You heard me. I'm yer dream, aren't I? S'yer responsibility to gimme a name."

"Um. . . very well, then. . . let me think-"

"No." Command. "No thinkin'. Just give me the first thing that pops into yer head."

"But I-"

"No! Just say it!" A yell, the scream of the drill instructor. It brought other minds contained within the house to sudden consciousness, to confusion.

Despite his pleading for time, Jelice had already decided on a name. One gleaned from a story his uncle Samson had told him, years ago. A story about an old tyrant, one who'd ruled a province of Valua before it had been pulled together by the current dynasty. He'd been cruel, and unjust – a monster in the truest sense of the word. He'd hung people without reason. Meted out twisted justice. Invaded other lands without provocation. Destroyed villages, wiped out peoples, taken hundreds of concubines, engendered every form of sin known to mankind.

The story had resulted in Jelice's first nightmare.

He didn't want to relive that nightmare.

"Just say it! SAY IT! NOW!"

The patter of frantic footsteps, somewhere outside the room.

"NOW!"

"LORD GALCIAN! GALCIAN! YOUR NAME IS GALCIAN!"

-

And Galley was no more.

-

Newly baptized, Galcian stood overtop of his cowering twin – but only in flesh – and smiled.

"I like it. Now, serve yer purpose, stepping stone."

Jelice's parents burst into the room, closely followed by their daughter and Jelice's brother, who, unfortunately for him, had come home from the academy for a few days rest. "What the devil is this?" the father bellowed, loud and authorial; but one look from Galcian's withering gaze turned Desmond's heart to stone. A gargoyle was perched over his son. Lindi shrieked, a wail soon matched by that of her daughter.

Galcian ignored the din. "Hmm, didn't bring any kerosene with me; guess I just have ta hope the wood panelling'll burn nicely."

He opened his palms, and from them shot forth cleansing fire.

NOTE: Yes, I know I just updated a few days ago, but god help me, I couldn't wait any longer. I've been waiting to do this chapter for AGES. AGES, YOU HEAR ME?


	28. Chapter 27

Wooden planks.

-

Galley was gone, but not forgotten; instead, he'd been shoved down, down into the cavernous recesses of his own mind, forced there by a personality trait gone mad. The dark part of himself, one might say, except for the fact that this murderous new Galcian was capable of acts of mercy. Even kindness, if he felt like it. Galley knew as much. The problem was, most of the time, Galcian didn't feel like being nice. It conflicted with his interests. The way to success, to achieving Galley's dream, now Galcian's, came through trampling the weak.

Galcian, in his complete frustration over Galley's inactivity, had taken over. Swiftly, brutally, and without remorse. He'd given Galley one final chance to take up the sword, and thrust it through the heart of the Voirel's thus enacting the plan: but Galley, out of his love for young Jelice, refused. It was too much to ask, the plan too inherently monstrous.

So Galcian took over. Galcian, the result of massive mental trauma on Galley's part. A schizophrenic creation. When Galcian's personality had begun to take on shape and form, Galley could not tell: he'd simply been, one day, and never since departed. The hawk eyes. No doubt it was partially a result of Mama's disappearance; but then, his creation may have been smouldering for ages, ever since the presumed capture of Tricks and Marlo.

None of the conjecture much mattered now. Galcian now existed. He now had control. And Galley, left in the pits of his subconscious, without any power over his fate, could do nothing about it. He simply wailed away voicelessly and watched as Galcian burned down the Voirel manor.

Indeed, Galley was no more. Galcian was all.

-

Desmond went first. A shaft of fire pierced him through his midsection, leaving a smouldering, craterous hole about the size of a pineapple. With a heaving gurgle he collapsed.

Lindi and her slim daughter went next. Both had tears streaming down their cheeks; all four dewy trails were incinerated in one blast. It erupted upwards, from the basement, catching the mother full on but merely clipping her progeny. The ashes of one and a half people intermingled in the aftermath, whipped about by crackling spires of flame.

Jelice's brother, not without a hint of military pride, roared with a lion's might and charged Galcian. In a show of respect from one warrior to another Galcian stabbed the older boy, straight through the chest, with a wickedly curved knife. Where'd he'd gotten it from, he couldn't much remember. The transition from pure thought to flesh and blood was not without its peculiarities. Galcian's foe fell to his knees, gasping for air and receiving only smoke. The room was already ablaze.

All this left but one person. Jelice, little Jelice, kind little Jelice.

Waving aside the smoke, ignoring the burning in his lungs and the ash clinging to his face, Galcian climbed atop Jelice's bed and peered down at the frightened boy.

Correction: coughing, frightened boy. Jelice seemed far worse off than his older brother when it came to breathing, despite the fact that the latter bore a pierced lung (amongst other things). His limbs flailed frantically, reaching for some intangible source of comfort but grasping only air. Did he want his mother and father? Probably. Galcian could only speculate as to the answer, however.

"And now," Galcian announced, still gazing down with a sort of revulsion for the squirming creature, "you're mine. Off with yer clothes."

Despite the heady roar of the fire and the incessant crackling of wood, Jelice managed to hear this, and his rapidly glazing eyes filled with confusion. What?

The answer came without pause or mercy, as was generally the custom with Galcian. He bore himself upon the boy and tore Jelice out from below his covers (not without great distaste, either; Galcian enjoyed physicality only when it accompanied violence), running his still bloody knife through the buttons on Jelice's pyjama shirt. The front fell open, bearing skin taught against ribs and a thin line of blossoming red from navel to throat.

"Whoops, guess I should be more careful, eh? Ha!" He yanked the shirt off of Jelice rather roughly, ignoring Jelice's feeble attempts to claw in self-defence. His fingers, virtually bereft of nails, did no damage.

Next came the pants. Galcian, coughing lightly from the mounting smoke – Jelice's toys seemed to be ablaze, now – simply flipped his emaciated cargo over and held on to the bottom cuffs of his fuzzy pants. Jelice slid rather smoothly out of them in a way that would've appeared rather comical under different contexts. With a sickening thump he flopped onto the floor and rolled, face turning a deep purple.

-

Mighty Lord Galcian, resplendent in his finely gilded armour and bearing a spear thicker than a man's forearm, had stood over Jelice in his nightmare. He'd been absolutely gigantic, a virtual bear of a man, with huge, knotted locks drooping down from a jowled face. Like any lord worth his salt, Galcian was mounted upon a muscular charger, one clad like a king. In the nightmare, he'd skewered Jelice with a dozen wounds before galloping off for other conquests.

In short, he'd looked nothing like this young man rampaging in Jelice's room tonight, one small detail aside. And what detail was that?

The eyes, of course. It was all in those avian orbs of his. A hawk. They'd been the deciding factor, that which incited Jelice to dub the wiry creature in his bedroom Galcian.

And he knew, now, as he lay upon the floor, nude, his flesh searing, lungs about to burst, that he'd not been wrong in his estimation. Galcian was a fine name for this angel of death.

He missed his family already. He missed his uncle Samson. But, most of all, he missed that shadowy young boy who'd sat upon his railing for all those months, nameless and friendly. Jelice was no fool: he'd been aware, since the fourth or fifth visit, that his visitor came not in dreams. But that didn't matter, for he'd been a friend. Interloper or no, he'd been a friend.

He'd been a brother.

Where had Jelice's brother gone?

This sorrowful question plagued Jelice as he rolled in agony, until, as a final measure of ensuring his success, Galcian turned one last devastating blast of energy upon his victim. Jelice was incinerated, leaving no trace of his ever having existed aside from a charred hole in the floor.

Was the world really as cruel as this?

-

Having watched this, Galley fell silent. He would not speak again for many years.

-

Galcian discarded his clothes. The act of doing so was difficult: his head, though freed from Galley's annoying chatter, was now incredibly light. The smoke was clearly taking its toll. He wobbled as he worked, tossing aside a ragged pair of shoes and pants far too big.

The ceiling began to collapse. Staggering, Galcian yanked the pyjama pants on. He nearly collapsed into one of the holes he'd made.

Identifying objects became difficult. Galcian managed to run into the sofa in the living room, a china cabinet, and two doors while attempting to pull the ragged shirt on. Why he'd not stolen a fresh pair of clothing from Jelice's drawers was not immediately obvious to him.

The house burned. Several other rooms were catching on, devil's tongues licking out of newly brightened closets and bedrooms. Galcian, lost and confused, wishing he'd done it all far more quickly, staggered about in a frenzy to get out. The front door was elusive.

Upon realising he'd left his moonstones back with his now smouldering belongings, he bellowed, but to little effect: the effort only succeeded in setting the room spinning. It all seemed to be a veritable pinwheel of darkness tinged by flecks of glowing red.

The plan would not work if he was dead. It would not.

It most certainly would not.

Smoke filtered in from other rooms. Galcian could hear the very foundations of the house creaking with pain, now.

It would not do to perish now.

So he collapsed, his will demanding compliance but limbs not obeying. Was this what it was to be a real person?


	29. Chapter 28

Swords?

-

When Galcian next awoke, he was on a soft, velvety bed. His eyes, still blurry and puffed, opened slowly, adjusting only tentatively to the light.

What was this place? He couldn't tell. The light hurt too much for the young man to get his bearings straight. It clearly wasn't where he'd just been, amidst mounds of smoke and rapidly approaching flame.

So where?

It was all so disorienting that Galcian was not at first aware that another person was in the room with him. It took a moment of quiet to notice the soft exhalation of air from somewhere on the other side of the space.

"Who's there?" he inquired, cautiously. The effort of saying even that little caused his lungs to ache. Had he inhaled that much smoke?

His question brought about a muffled snort and the shifting of position. Whoever it was, they seemed to be asleep.

Galcian sat still. Best not to wake them for the moment, then. Despite his light-headed state, Galcian retained his survival skills (gleaned, of course, from the experiences of Galley). Relaxing, he allowed his eyes to open, slowly, willing himself past the pain of the puffiness.

The plan was a success. So far, anyway.

With what little sight he retained Galcian inspected himself. His sooty, stolen clothing was gone, replaced with satin pyjamas. The thought that somebody else had undressed and then redressed him made Galcian's skin crawl. What could've been done to him while he slept?

He slid his hands across the bed, searching for the edge and beyond. Surely there was addresser or night stand somewhere close, he thought to himself; but nothing of particular interest presented itself. Just bed sheets.

His vision began to clear. Out of the mist of nothingness sprang vague, twisted shapes, obscure and unidentifiable. Galcian could well have been tossed into a world of blobs. It took a few minutes for the shapes to redefine themselves into straight edges. The room revealed itself to him.

It was a study, from the looks of it. Books lined several shelves. A gigantic, three-dimensional map of Valua stood unused and dusty in one corner of the room. It looked to be carved from marble. A couch, a desk, several filing cabinets. . . and a man. A small, jowled man, puffing away quietly in an easy chair. Samson King, in fact.

The details of the plan suddenly rushed back. In all the confusion of that night, in the transition period, the glory of being freed, Galcian had forgotten about this man. The last snag in the plan. Damnit, everything was ruined!

Or was it? Could he simply make King vanish?

That sounded good.

A letter opener in the form of a dagger lay upon King's desk, half of it still embedded in the slit of a letter. That would do. One plunging motion into the man's throat and it was the end of problem. That he would have to dispose of the body afterwards meant nothing to Galcian; at the moment, clearly, he lacked the gift of foresight.

Dragging himself out of bed (his limbs were still greatly weakened), Galcian edged along the posh carpeting with as much stealth as possible. It was unnecessary, really, for Samson King slept like the dead; Galcian later chalked it up to mere instinct. Yet when one is not fully possessed of their motor skills, subterfuge becomes well nigh impossible, and Galcian could not help but wince at every bump and thud that erupted from his movements.

Samson King slept on, oblivious to the crawling death that approached his desk.

Galcian clutched the edge of the oaken furniture, striving valiantly to pull himself up. His muscles creaked and groaned in harmony with his screaming lungs. The pain was nearly too much; yet Galcian moved on, fuelled by rage. This man would not screw up his plans. He would not. The path to nobility lay in sight, with but one lumpy obstacle still standing in the way.

His fingers clutched at the knife. They attempted to disobey Galcian, fumbling here and there, yet the murderous young creature was implacable. In time, he managed to wrangle the weapon between his fingers.

But the movement cost him greatly, for in the doing Galcian sent a pot of ink sprawling with his elbow. It slid casually off of the desk and smashed on the woefully uncarpeted wood flooring. Galcian's knees were sprayed with thick black beads.

The noise was enough. King, startled out of his dream – he'd been reminiscing on women, as per usual – flew upwards in a frenzy, releasing several potent curses into the air for Galcian's scrutiny. It took a moment for him to grasp what had just happened, for his first impression was that the teenager was attempting to open a letter. Then the full impact of the knife came to bear on him.

"Just what do ye think yer doin', eh?" was all he asked.

Galcian threw the old man such a look of contempt that he staggered back, visibly, and barely had enough time to dodge the letter opener that threatened to catch him full in the face. It was a poor throw, hence King's ability to dodge the bullet. On a normal day, Galcian never would have missed.

His failure evident, Galcian slid off of the desk and reached underneath the desk, seeking out a shred of glass from the inkpot. It was in vain, however, as King was now upon the desperate boy, pinning his arms down. Galcian snarled and attempted to break free, but his normal strength was gone.

"Calm yerself! Right now, or I'll break yer twiggy little neck, boyo!" And, indeed, King's hands found their way around Galcian's head. One twist was all it would take.

"Get offa me, you piece o' shit! Get off!"

"Not til ye calm down. Otherwise I'll call in the guards, and I bet ye won't be likin' that much, now will ye?"

The plan flashed briefly to mind. "You can't treat Jelice Voirel like this, bast'rd! I demand you get off!"

"Ahh, true; however, ye ain't Jelice, now are ye?"

That brought an end to the struggles. He did know, after all.

"Peh, then you may s'well off me now, then, 'cause if I get free your fat ass is dead, hear me?"

King laughed in spite of himself. "The boy has spunk! I've ne'er heard such a foul mouth. Ye'd never pass fer Jelice, boyo."

Defeat threatened to collapse Galcian's spirit. The plan was rapidly vanishing. Was it all over already? After all those months of waiting and hoping?

"Were ye the one that set their house ablaze?"

"What if I was?" Galcian snarled.

"I'll take that as a yes. Grand arson 'n murder one, then. Ye know that's instant execution."

Galcian remained silent. King leaned in close, his mouth astride Galcian's ear. Galcian shuddered at the sensation of the old man's breath on his flesh. "And ye killed me only hope'n the world. I was rearin' Jelice, you know. He was gonna be my heir."

"Tough shit, then, eh?"

"Indeed, boyo. I'm right annoyed that ye stole my own plan from me. Though, I was gonna blow the place up instead."


	30. Chapter 29

Crying.

"You gotta be kidding me."

The statement was a reasonable one. Who, in Samson King's position, would ever consider so harebrained a scheme? For some nameless thief like Galcian, with no connections whatsoever, the plan was entirely plausible; there would be little incriminating evidence linking the crime to somebody without a face. For King, however, with his lucrative spot in Valuan society, the whole notion of demolishing the Voirel manor with dynamite was tantamount to suicide. He would never have gotten away with it.

"Nay, I'm not; rest assured, laddie, I coulda done it easily enough."

Their struggle put under the flag of temporary reprieve, both parties had retreated to opposite ends of the room. Galcian sat upon the bed, legs folded underneath him, watching King carefully; the older man, for his part, kept a solitary vigil at the door. He was determined to keep Galcian from escaping.

Galcian sniffed. "They would've found you out in no time, old man."

Samson waved a hand, utterly without concern, and adjusted himself a bit. His legs creaked beneath him. "I know the right people. All I needed was te get Jelice out of the house."

Galcian, wicked as he was, could not help but grin. "Guess I took care o' that, eh?"

Samson did not flinch. "True; but, laddie, ye don't seem te quite understand my relationship with the wee, departed Jelice."

"Oh?"

"Aye. All I wanted was an heir. Any would do."

"Why, can't get yer own pickle workin'?"

Samson ignored Galcian's crudeness. He was, after all, still an impudent boy. "Hardly, boyo. But that's none 'o yer concern." He cracked his knuckles. "Instead, ye should be wonderin' what I'm gonna do with ye."

Involuntary flashes – brief and fleeting, yet hundreds in number – of what Samson could mean flashed through Galcian's mind. The old man had already proven his physical domination (though that only rang true for as long as Galcian remained weakened) and could easily overpower Galcian if he so wished. Many of the possibilities were perverse, and sent a shiver down the boy's spine.

"Well, bring it already, whatever it is. I'll take you down before you get a finger on me."

Samson guffawed at the display of bravado. Truly, it was Galcian's last true line of defence, and had been shot to pieces with little difficulty. "Sure, sure. I'll bet ye'll use the same moves ye tried on me before, eh? No, lad: ye keep thinkin' the course o' action I have in mind is negative."

Galcian cocked an eyebrow.

"I can tell what ye had in mind, kiddo. Kill 'em off, pretend ta be Jelice, get accepted into high society. No? Somethin' along those lines?"

Was his plan really so simple to see through?

"Pretty ingenious, for a tyke," Samson continued, eye ticking slightly as he spoke, "but ye had a bit of an obstacle in me. No wonder ye wanted ta do me in a few minutes ago." He grinned at the boy, his thin mouth reminding Galcian of the large, grotesque fish that inhabited the sewers of Lower Valua.

"Get to the point."

"Right, right. Here's what I be proposin', lad: you can be Jelice. I don't give a fig 'bout which laddie I raise, so long as 'e creates some kind o' dynasty for me. In fact, this does away with the chance tha you might die o' some disease. Ye are fit, aren't ye?"

Galcian nodded mutely at this last question, barely registering what'd been asked of him. His head was already bowed in thought. The plan, formerly splintered into a thousand glittering pieces, came whirling back into view. The dream was re-imagined. Was this possible? Could it work?

"What would I have to do?"

"The usual for kiddies: go to the academy, join the military, all that stuff. Become some big general, for all I care. My only stipulation, boyo, is that ye get married one o' these days and bear some children. I want grandkids te spoil."

It could work. But what if this bulbous sea creature of a man let the secret slip?

"You won't say anythin'?"

King seemed taken aback by this suspicion. "'course not! What'd be the point o' havin' an heir if 'e was shackled in irons? So long as ye do me proud, and make me a family, I'll keep yer secret safe." His fingers rubbed together greedily, as though this were a high-paying business transaction. And, genetically speaking, it almost was (despite the fact that King and Galcian held no blood ties); King was, in essence, ensuring the continuation of his familial line.

Galcian ruminated on it. Why was he bothering, though? It hardly seemed as though the boy had a choice. It was either Samson's proposal, or the stocks. Yet his innate paranoia made Galcian suspicious of King, a fear of some underlying scheme. The man radiated a greasy aura, one Galcian held grave misgivings over.

Yet he had no choice.

"One condition."

"Ye'd best not be getting' stingy here, boyo. Ye're not in a place to bargain."

"This ain't much. Just wanna keep my name."

"Oh? And what is that, now?"

"Galcian."

Samson King recoiled in that moment. He recognised the name, all right: he'd read up rather extensively on the Lord Galcian of ages past. "What're ye, some kinda pariah? That name's practically banned! Ye'll be a social misfit! No, ye're Jelice, whether ye like it or-"

And then he stopped. King, in his sudden, panicked rant, considering only the ramifications of rearing a child named Galcian, had noticed the look in his soon-to-be-anointed ward's eyes. Those narrow, hawk eyes. A gleam of sparkling anger was within them, rising and falling dangerously, like a cobra ready to strike if given sufficient provocation. The boy's damaged frame did nothing to subtract from this impression: indeed, it made the scene all the more impressive, for Samson became aware that his sudden fear for Galcian stemmed from a purely mental standpoint.

This young man was absolutely terrifying. The devil himself was sitting atop Samson's bed. Samson felt a definite twinge of regret for having made this deal, clearly not knowing what he was getting into.

Had he known Galcian possessed equal reservations, it would've evened the playing field a bit. As it was, though, Samson King felt as though he was clutching the very tip of the stick, with Galcian domineering the rest.

". . . are ye sure? It might not go over well, with all them high society ty-"

"My name is Galcian. Live with it. Jelice is dead, and he ain't comin' back."

Samson nodded timidly. He was no longer in control of the situation, it seemed, a state of being Galcian secretly revelled in. He let none of his glee show, however, retaining a sufficiently rigid and enraged countenance.

"Eh. . . alright, then, boyo. . . Galcian it is. . . maybe ye'll change yer mind when ye read up on 'im a wee bit. I won't press the matter, though. So, we. . . have a deal?" He proceeded over to Galcian and extended a meaty palm, sweating profusely.

Galcian gazed at it in distaste. Despite having lived in a sewer for quite some time, Galcian considered some humans to be of a level of scum far below typical vermin. Their disgusting habits were almost palpable upon their skin. Yet, encapsulated in that palm, he saw the final key that would unlock and complete his dream. Or the first phase of it, anyway.

Galcian received it, a little weakly, and they shook. Samson knew all too well that Galcian hated him; knew, too, that he may well have just signed over his soul.

In the ensuing weeks, several inquiries were held in regards to the Voirel mansion fire. Investigators investigated; police policed; and scientists, collecting all samples available, eventually came to the conclusion that the fire had been started through magical means. It was chalked up to a failed robbery, one that'd raged out of control and claimed even the thief's life.

Jelice survived only because of Samson King, who had been visiting (according to his alibi) during the debacle. The parents had pressed poor unconscious Jelice into his arms before rushing back into the house to retrieve their other children, only to perish.

Jelice was placed into the care of Samson King, as stipulated by the official Voirel family will (in fact altered by Samson in the midst of the investigation). He accepted the child with the utmost grace and civility, promising Jelice the best education money could buy and the boy's every desire in any area.

Jelice changed his name to Galcian. The judge indicated her vast distaste at the new name, but Galcian insisted on the change: it was his wish, he claimed, that he bring a sense of honour and dignity back to the name. Besides, the thought of his family was simply too painful, and he wished to disassociate himself from his old life as quickly as possible.

Doctors hailed Galcian's recovery to good health as a veritable miracle. Several hypothesized that the magic at work in the house may have caused a sort of freak regeneration of his damaged cellular structure; however, none had the necessary equipment with which to study the phenomenon. Besides, Samson refused to allow examination of the boy, citing the many examples of the patients of De Loco's scientists taking turns for the worse at the auspices of 'experimentation'.

Galcian, after 'recuperating' for several weeks, entered into the Valuan Academy for boys. He would remain there for the next five years, learning the practices of military strategy alongside good manners and civil graces.

His dreams were finally in sight. It all seemed so inevitable, now.

Yet the flickering images, invaders of his mind in the night, never left him alone: and Galcian slowly came to realise that it was not his mind from which these things originated, but from that of Galley, buried deeply away and forever mourning his poor decisions.


	31. Chapter 30

Five years passed.

Much must be said on what transpired in those five years, for they were important; indeed, they saw the full flourishing of a realised Valuan state. Not one constrained within the borders of Valua itself, but a burgeoning empire that spread out into the vast reaches of the sky. The Valuan navy, formerly rather paltry in the face of such powers as Nasr, grew by leaps and bounds under the grip of Admiral De Loco's scientific advances.

The King of Valua died in the third year. The Queen assumed leadership of the nation. Princess Teodora, now all too adult, began playing for power against her own mother. In this time, too, she fell in love with a powerful old Duke by the name of Sisko. Whether it was true love is debatable; many speculated that the relationship was forged (at least on her part) simply out of practicality.

Admiral De Loco married in the first year, and had bequeathed onto him another son, this through legitimate means. Dubbed Jonathan by his now aged father, the baby found himself brought into a world of surprising warmth and love.

The younger De Loco continued to be spurned by his father. Now growing into a vastly superior intellect, De Loco found many reasons to both envy and hate his half brother Jonathan, and became ever more twisted in his outlook on life.

Gregorio, in recognition of his superior captaining abilities, was placed in a teaching role at the Senior Valuan Military Academy. It was his duty to take already moulded cadets and change them into capable strategists – his was certainly not a class for common soldiers.

An uneasy peace between Valua and Nasr began to break down in light of Admiral De Loco's rapid armament of his country's navy. The Nasultan, a bold and brilliant commander, deemed it necessary to beef up his own defences, ordering an increase in ship stock and instituting a recruitment drive. The thought of a universal draft entered his mind more than once.

A gigantic arc whale began terrorizing the skies. The forces of Nasr and Valua entered into a very brief and tense agreement to do away with it, but the whale proved too powerful and swift for capture.

Young Dyne, now a burgeoning pirate, found a down-to-earth girlfriend. She worked hard to keep him from egotism.

Tricks and Marlo continued to work hard on the Grand Fortress, which, after so many years of work, was now nearing completion. It proved as overbearingly grandiose as De Loco had initially planned. The old man promised for a freeing of all workers upon finishing the project, but few actually believed his words. Now deeply in love with one another, the two youths thought ahead to both marriage and family, but knew such things would be institutionally impossible while still amongst the labour gangs. The thought of having children, however, proved enough to keep them both working with strong hearts.

Squim formed his own gang of misfits and social malcontents, poorly mirroring the Sewer Rats of old. His initial plan had been to invade his former hideout and kill both Mama and Galley through sheer force of arms: however, upon finding it abandoned, the monster contented himself with throwing out the majority of Mama's old junk. His new band, bearing the apt name of 'Vermin', terrorized the surface dwellers of Valua with much greater viciousness than the Sewer Rats had ever managed, replacing a lack of thieving skill with sheer brutality. The police had extremely poor luck in catching any of Squim's thieves, as the brigands often resorted to killing their pursuers without hesitation.

Mama did not resurface, at least not in a capacity where she was recognizable to those from her past.

Samson King lived and worked. And Galcian lived with him.

It was far from an amicable relationship, for Galcian detested his host. The constant threat of blackmail sat over his head like the Sword of Damocles, always prepared to drop should Samson King deem it appropriate. Officially speaking, they were very close; when social eyes dropped away, however, Galcian did everything to express his distaste for King. So long as Galcian acted the part of adopted son, however, Samson didn't care. He would have his heir either way.

Galcian was sent to the Junior Valuan Academy, and learned the tenets of gentlemanly conduct. Despite some early problems in finesse – he was not accustomed to fancy table manners – Galcian excelled in his studies, and could readily impress any one of his teachers or peers. He did not make a point of gaining the trust of others, however, as the young man trusted no one himself. He garnered casual acquaintances, and little else.

Galcian proved himself a combat genius. His propensity for dominating in war games appeared very early on; his official record in simulated naval combat, against his classmates, was 325 wins and 22 losses. Indeed, he seldom lost at any game involving strategy – thus inciting those around him to challenge Galcian only in games of chance. Galcian learned to detest such random distractions, especially upon learning that luck seldom favoured him.

His muscles broadened and widened. By eighteen, Galcian looked every bit a man. As with mental combat, Galcian found himself unsurpassed in the arts of the sword and of magic. It is fair to say that he had an unfair advantage in these fields, having grown up in a physically demanding environment all his life: none of his fellow boys stood even the slimmest chance of keeping up to Galcian in fencing practice. The young tactician gained, moreover, a great love for extremely heavy swords, and demanded that Samson purchase one particularly devastating blade – a thick, middle weighted sword with incredible cutting power – for his birthday. It would almost never leave his side from the day he received it onwards.

Galcian graduated with top honours, and was immediately dropped into the Senior Academy. The advancement granted him the honorary position of Naval Lieutenant, one that he relished yet found strangely inadequate: it still seemed a long crawl up to Admiral.

He lived. He worked. He fought. All with that single goal in mind, that pinnacle of social climbing. And as he learned, gorging himself with book after book (Galcian seldom allowed himself any recreational time, feeling too useless if he took a break), his ideas began to change. Subtly, at first, but soon in a very pronounced fashion.

He would change the world for the better, yes. But it seemed so vast, so unknown. Could even his genius transform it all?

Or was some culling in order?

He killed several people in this time. Every now and then, a vicious tingle would run up his spine, and Galcian, biting his lip or feeling a slight tic in his eye, would vacate the house, take up his sword, and proceed down into Lower Valua. Nobody in Upper Valua ever found out about his excursions, not that they would have cared much. Why he did this was a mystery to himself: an imbalance, perhaps, in his brain, as a result of his taking over stewardship of Galley's body. He was not a man wholly right in the head, a fact that he was all too aware of.

Galley watched the world pass. He pined for release. But he said nothing.


	32. Chapter 31

"Wow. Never realized how far up we were."

And indeed they were. Very, very high up, now perched upon the top of the Grand Fortress, afforded one small luxury after years of bondage. All of the workers were; grouped together and surrounded by heavily armed guards, not that any of the greasy and underfed slaves felt like putting up any kind of a fight. Grasping the polished railings, they all gazed out – or, rather, down – upon the fruits of their labour. And despite all the pain they'd been put through, not to mention how gaudy its emerald surface seemed, each person had to admit that the Grand Fortress was a magnificent structure.

Several miles in height, many more in width, and containing more firepower than could be properly conceived of, the great wall was certainly aptly named. Yet its behemoth-like stature also worked to bring about an ominous sense of foreboding, for not only did it keep unwanted ships out, it kept everything else in. Valua was officially a fortress nation. Not nearly as many of the labourers considered that element of the construction, instead validating their years of containment by aggrandizing their work. Negatives had little place in this moment.

"Yeah. Pretty far. Bet I could spit'n never see it land."

But not for everybody. Indeed, two people, standing side by side, hand in hand, gazing over the walkway with tentative eyes, held dire reservations over the fortress. Indeed, the first amongst this couple – a tall, broadly shouldered youth with shaggy red hair and dull brown eyes – wondered if it would not have been better for them all to have leapt to their deaths at the beginning of the work. This edifice to power would only bring ill fortune to the world. His companion, a shorter, yet somehow scrappier looking female, wondered if she would ever see the outside world, or if this was destined to be her last look at it.

"Y'think we could ever get out o' Valua?"

A shrug. "Maybe."

"Could get on one'a those ships swirlin' around by the gate. I bet one of 'em would let us on."

"Where would we go, though? We don't know nuthin' 'bout everything else."

A matching shrug. "So? We just go wherever they're willin' ta take us. Better'n this dump."

The girl had to admit that her beau had a point, though she said nothing of it. "Eh."

"This's the last place I'd wanna raise any kids o' mine, no doubt."

The whole world around them, tightly penned in though they were (hundreds of fellow workers milled about around them, each vying for a better look into the darkened blue that served as theatre) seemed to fall away, and these two young lovers sat in empty space, oblivious to anybody else.

"Kids? Ha! You're dreamin'. Just tryin' to get inta my pants, I bet."

The young man threw her a grin, one tinged with mischievousness yet still possessing youthful innocence. It was an odd combination. "I already been in your pants, and you know it."

A snort, though it came coupled with a meeting of their bodies. She allowed him to envelop her with his burly arms. "Pfft, whatever. Just so ya know, you suck in the sack."

He guffawed at this. "Sure, sure."

It was silent in their little world, the dark clouds of Valua passing by both over their heads and below their toes. It seemed as though they were sailing under their own power, feet not rooted to any surface but propelled by their own dreams for freedom. For that is what they wanted: to be their own persons, held in chains by any outside authority. Both had had their fill of such things.

Such a day may not have been far off, for it had been announced just an hour prior that their work was complete. The labourers were to be sent back to Lower Valua, a testament to their undeniably fine craftsmanship in building the wall. It was of course taken for granted in the upper echelons that this was due primarily to the managerial power of aristocratic supervisors, and they were all toasting one another in the finest mess halls Valua had to offer at that very moment: but everybody knew, at least instinctively, that Valua was safe because of her workers. Each person was to be granted three thousand gold in payment for services rendered upon their release, a decent sum with which to get back on one's feet (especially in the slums).

"You really want kids?"

"Well, yeah. Maybe. You?"

"I. . . I dunno. Never thought 'bout it."

"Really?"

A pause. Her eyes did their best to avoid his.

"Maybe a bit. But I didn't figure, y'know."

"Yeah."

He pressed her more tightly to his chest; she seemed too caught up in the moment even to scowl at this gesture, as was usually her wont.

"What would you name 'em? Like, what a boy, and what a girl?"

He thought about this. It hadn't occurred to him before to assign his still uncertain children names: they existed only as phantoms in his mind, unidentified and ominous. He was not very imaginative, after all.

"Erm. . . not sure."

This answer killed the moment – though only by a little bit – and she disengaged herself from his embrace, glaring into his dirtied countenance. "No names? You must be dumb, yeah? You musta thought of some names. You need names with kids, y'know? Dummy!"

All these remonstrations did was bring a smile to his face, for it suddenly occurred to him that she had names picked out already.

"Me," she said, twirling back to look at the clouds again, "I don't want any girls. Too girly." She'd long been cured of her childish attempts to accept her femininity, instead taking up the more comfortable role of tomboy. "Only boys."

"What'd you name a boy, then?"

Her mouth opened, wanting to answer, then closed. It was an unusual act of shyness on her part. "Eh. . . none 'o your business."

He would not be dissuaded. "C'mon, tell me. That ain't no fair, now that you brought it up." His fingers slid below her chin and tilted it gently up, matching her gaze with his own.

What pretty eyes 'e has, she thought. Everybody else says they're dull; me, I think they're the nicest things I've ever seen. And indeed they were, for his eyes conveyed a glowing innocence that captivity had never managed to stamp out: experienced and hardened by work though they were, each beautiful spot of brown contained a sort of unadulterated good that would never grow dark. 'e may not be the smartest guy 'round, but I'm gonna marry 'im for sure.

"C'mooon. After your brother, maybe?"

The idea had crossed her mind more than once, but was always dismissed. His name was hardly fit to apply to others. Though such thoughts made her feel a traitor to her own flesh and blood – debatably so, anyways – she could not help but keep such an opinion. Something had always been fundamentally wrong with her brother.

"Nu uh, no way."

"Then what?"

"Well. . . I-I kinda. . . always liked your name."

He was taken aback by her confession, slight though it was. "Mine? What's so great 'bout mine?"

She shrugged and bowed her head. He admired the toss of her hair as she did: grime did nothing to destroy her innate beauty. "I dunno. . . just kinda always liked it. I guess."

He had to disagree on this. Personally speaking, he'd always considered his name extremely dry, and altogether forgettable (much like the rest of himself). "You sure? Pretty borin' to me."

She couldn't supply a reason why.

Letting out a thin wisp of steamy breath (it was cold up there, after all), he caressed her hair with the utmost tenderness and let the idea run through his head. Would they just add a 'junior' onto the end of his name? That sounded rather dumb. Had he been more forthright in his nature, he would've suggested her name in place of his: hers was not a name commonly held by boys or girls, unlike his own. He was not, however, and instead worked to accept her decision while adding his own elements to the mix.

"Well. . . what's say we combine our names, sorta like? Y'know?"

She considered this, but eventually shook her head adamantly. "No, no, I like yer name."

"How 'bout we change at least one 'o the letters, then? That'd be okay?"

A pause. "Okay."

This was no longer a simple game of future wishing. They both understood the relevance of this. Their child would be a male, and his name was to be decided here. The future overlapped into their private space, their time, and touched them in a way that seemed almost providential.

The actual deciding took little effort. It was more discovering the name for the first time, rather than coming up with it out of the blue.

"How 'bout we take the. . . what is it, fourth letter? – outta my name, and swap it with yours?"

She looked up at him. The suggestion was startlingly original for so humble a man. The result, too, sounded absolutely perfect.

"Marco?"

"Yeah."

They stood and ruminated over the designator, rolling it around in their minds, testing its limits and loveliness. All held true.

"Marco." Her voice was soft, no longer its usual bitter self, and he could see the true young woman she was, with all of her vulnerabilities and hopes, emerging in that moment, and only for that moment. "Yeah. Marco."

Three days later, after more than a decade of brutal, grinding labour, the Lower Valuans were set free.


	33. This is the end my only friend, the end ...

Let it known, now, that this entire chapter will NOT be a chapter. Rather, it is a statement of intent.

I'm done with this story. Period. It's over. Not writing any more of it.

No doubt there will be those amongst you who think this rather sudden and brutal; however, I have several good points on my side that should stem the onslaught. (I make it sound as thought trillions of people read this fanfic. Talk about ego.)

First. I have lost interest in finishing it. This is not necessarily the fault of the story itself, per se, but the game: more precisely, my waning knowledge of it. It has been AGES since I played it (at least five months now), and the events that transpired in Skies are seeping out of my brain. I cannot effectively write on a game that I do not remember. No doubt you're all now saying, 'come on, you could just replay the damned thing!', which is quite true: however, I feel no compunction to do so. It does take quite some time to beat it, after all, and I just don't have the energy to redo De Loco's bloody mountain dungeon thingy. That place is hideously annoying.

Second. I don't want to do fanfiction anymore. Now, this is not a strike against the honour of any fan works. I've read many a quality story in my time based on video games, anime, and any number of other subjects. However, there comes a time when a budding writer (one hoping to earn a living from their craft, that is) must move away from reworked imitations, and create something more original. I want to design my own worlds, my own characters; I want to own my creation, not co-own.

Third. This story looks like it could go on for aaaaaaages. I would prefer it not.

Fourth. I'm too busy. I have to recoup my monetary losses over the year this summer, leaving me with precious little time already towards my original writing. Something must be slain to allow me a breather, and this fanfic, unfortunately, is it.

Fifth. I literally dreamed a novel into existence sometime last week (Friday, I think it was), and really really reeeeeeeally want to devote my time to writing it instead. The plot was there; the characters; the setting; even a few smatterings of dialogue. If brief flashes of inspiration are the bread and butter of a writer's palate, then a dream the likes of which I had is a three-plate dinner buffet free of charge. Indeed, it is through this that you may be able to witness more of my writings, as I may decide to post it online as I work on it (though it won't appear on or its sister site for original fiction). In that case, I'll probably slap it onto a Live Journal account or something. This is, of course, for those of you who seem to think I'm a good writer (you fools!), and wish to see what I have in store.

Now that I've thoroughly disappointed any hopes of 'Rise to Excellence' being finished, I will allow a rather insufficient compromise to take place: I'll fill you in on some of things I had PLANNED on occurring story-wise. A cruel teaser, perhaps, seeing as how it'll never be seen through to fruition, but I prefer this over a Chaucerian cop-out manoeuvre (anybody who understands that gets a sticker).

Galcian is put under the tutelage of Gregorio in the academy, and learns naval tactics from him. Gregorio has vague recollections of the boy who embarrassed the hell out of him years earlier.

Galcian, encountering several problems with formal conduct (insulting other nobles) is confronted by King, they argue, and King puts him in the care of a personal teacher in such matters: Lady De Winter, otherwise known to Galcian as Mama. Her real name popped up earlier on, though I'm sure most people didn't even realize it. She'd been spotted while at the marketplace and dragged back to her noble roots, ones she abandoned for reasons that I'm not fully clear on yet. Mostly out of boredom with her cushy situation, I suspect.

Galcian is placed in the police force during his training, and one of his first assignments is tracking down Squim and eliminating him.

Galcian meets Belleza's father somewhere along the way. References made to Belleza, though nothing big.

Once he's of age, De Loco (junior) sets himself up alongside Galcian in a plot to oust his own father (mainly because of his father's snubbing) for the spot of Admiral. I'd hoped De Loco would become a relatively big character later on. C'est la vie, eh?

The whole war against Nasir was gonna occupy a gigantic chunk of story, outlining Galcian's rise from relative obscurity to a spot of relative prominence (Vice Admiral, at least). It was this story point that daunted me the most, I think.

Tricks and Marlo were going to attempt to escape Valua, get caught (by Galcian, acting as a dock captain or something similar), and summarily be executed by their friend (after much mental debate with Galley, of course).

The whole shebang (minus the epilogue) would've ended with Galcian on the Green Continent, looking out over it all and revelling in his power, and then being interrupted by somebody shouting his name in anger. That person, naturally, is Ramirez, thus bringing the story to a close with their first meeting.

The epilogue would've taken place in the brief few moments before Belleza's ship crashes into Galcian's escape pod thingy (just after the fight with Vyse on his station – what the hell was it called again?) and featured a long, impassioned debate between Galcian and Galley.

Oh, and as for the little flashes that keep appearing at the beginning of each chapter – those were recollections of Galley's parents. The idea was that they'd been killed in a raid of some kind, and Galley left for dead – only to be snatched up by Mama.

There was more, but I've forgotten a bunch. No doubt it would've come back in time.

That's about it. It should be known now that, even though I'm abandoning the story, it doesn't mean I really dislike it; I've grown fond of my characters. No doubt I'll import a few of them into later works (aside from the copyrighted ones, that is). I truly appreciate all of your kind comments; they allowed me to keep writing in times of annoyance, sadness, and poor health. The morale boosters you provided were more helpful than you can imagine.

It was a valuable experience for me, no doubt, and I think I'll be able to take the lessons I learned from writing this an incorporate them into any future enterprises.

If I decide to post my stuff, I'll let you know right here; otherwise, keep a lookout for any authors with the last name Bird. God willing, there'll be one in the next few years. Ciao, y'all.


End file.
